It was the quiet cusp of dawn, when the world hangs between shadows and light. A large digital clock, perched high above a featureless bus stop, glowed 7:34 in harsh red numbers. Edwards emerged, his footsteps measured, eyes fixed forward, as though the path behind him no longer existed. In the parallel lane, Martha appeared, clutching a thick folder, the sum of years of careful notes. Between her arms, three loose sheets jostled gently as she walked.
Their eyes met across the narrow strip of asphalt. In that moment, time slowed as if the world itself had pressed pause. Siblings, bound by unspoken knowledge and shared memory, each instinctively understood the other. Edwards moved with the quiet authority of one who carries invisible burdens, while Martha's hand toyed with a set of keys, glancing subtly toward her brother's home. The hospital's green lights drew Edwards like a lodestar, and Martha's gaze lingered just long enough to acknowledge the calm before the storm.
Edwards reached the hospital first. The metallic tang of antiseptic mingled with the subtle odors of sorrow, faint laughter, and disappointment in the elevators. At one floor, he paused—a child crying alone in a closed waiting room, a fleeting shadow against frosted glass. The same adolescent he had once spoken when he went to see Iris at the hospital for the first time, in that elevator. with now pressed against the windowpane, his face framed by the early light. There was a certain familiarity in the boy's sad half-smile, a silent language only Edwards seemed to understand. He said nothing. Some things did not require words.
The door to Iris's room slid open, and Edwards entered her private world of suspended time. Machines hummed with the quiet rhythm of life she was unaware of, yet her mind drifted elsewhere, perhaps back to a childhood she had long left behind. Edwards observed her, a delicate adult lost in her own memories, and a small, private laugh escaped him. Imagination, he thought, is always a kingdom of its own—and in this case, he alone held the keys.
He noticed the branch of lavender flowers resting beside the bed. Iris had adored them, though Edwards, with his peculiar sense of irony, had always disliked them. Nestled among the blooms was a letter, written in careful, tender handwriting:
"For my daughter, when you wake, promise that you will care for these flowers. If I see them tended, I will know you are alive. – Kimberly"
Edwards let his eyes linger on Iris: pale skin, closed eyelids, and the steady pulse measured in slow, reassuring beats. The respirator sat quietly on a portable table, disconnected. The bag of water swayed gently at her bedside. With deliberate care, he plucked a single sprig of lavender from the bouquet, folding himself onto one knee beside the bed.
"Do you mind if I take this little piece?" he whispered softly, as if she could hear. "It will be less for someone to worry about cleaning... There are people broken in this place. Iris, it's Edwards, in case you don't know. I just want you to know your daughter is safe. I'm keeping her away from everything—my world, everyone's problems—just as you would have wanted. Your parents want you back. I don't know how long Jordan has, but you must be there for him on that final day. I know you promise it from your heart, even if no words come. We'll meet again, emerald green."
He rose, holding the lavender sprig delicately between his fingers. At the doorway, he greeted a passing nurse with a gentle nod, the faintest smile touching his lips. Before leaving entirely, he paused at the window of the waiting room—the room of endlessly cruel anticipation—and let his gaze linger. Then he opened the door fully, stepping into the fluorescent-lit corridor.
The adolescent looked up, face streaked with tears that seemed almost bloodlike in their intensity. "it happened... right?" Edwards approached, extending the sprig of lavender. The boy took it with trembling hands, and Edwards murmured, "You've learned a chapter of life... the scent will help your confidence."
The boy, grateful but still tangled in confusion, whispered just before Edwards left, "Thank you... sir."
Edwards glanced back, a soft, knowing smile crossing his face. Then he turned and walked away, leaving the adolescent to the quiet power of a single green sprig, the fragrance of hope lingering in the sterile air.
In the other way, under the tender light of dawn, Martha ascended the steps of the building, her fingers still lingering on the cold metal of her keys, a small ritual of anticipation. Her green eyes glimmered like dew on early leaves as she approached the door, twisting the lock with a careful, measured rhythm—one, two, three turns—and finally it opened.
The house revealed itself in silence. Loneliness filled the rooms, punctuated only by the faint, almost imagined sound of tiny footsteps—echoes of a mischievous child Martha was not yet ready to remember. She left the door ajar as she set her folder down on the counter, beside Edwards's modern phone, and carefully placed Iris's test results there.
"Hello, Mr. Ed—" Sarah began, her voice bright and unassuming, but she froze mid-step. At the far end of the hallway, a figure blocked her view: Martha, poised at the entrance, a stranger whose presence made Sarah's little heart hesitate. Like a shadow retreating, Sarah ducked, winding down the hall and into her sanctuary, a hiding place beneath the bed.
Martha's gaze softened. A smile played at the corners of her lips as she bent down to observe the floor. She had planned to leave the house quietly, but curiosity sparked in her green eyes, awakening a desire to reach out to this child who had endured so much. Carefully, she closed the door, mindful not to startle Sarah from her hiding spot. Her gaze drifted to the wet little plush bear left on the table, resting atop the small footprints Sarah had left yesterday—still unwashed.
"I'm Mr. Edwards's sister... You don't need to be afraid," Martha called gently. Sarah stayed hidden, instinctively cautious.
Martha entered the room, fully aware of its simplicity: a single bed, a nightstand, walls painted in green that had faded with time. She could sense the little girl beneath the bed, and rather than force the encounter, she circled the room with careful curiosity. Martha opened the window on the opposite wall, letting a gentle breeze wander inside.
"Nice air, isn't it?" she asked, her tone playful, coaxing Sarah gently. The child remained clutching her woolen bear, eyes wide in tentative wonder.
Finally, Martha crouched down, soft and patient. "Mr. Edwards doesn't let you approach strangers, does he?"
Sarah's voice was a whisper, uncertain, as a tiny head peeked from under the blankets. "He... he didn't tell me anything..."
"You'll see... if you come out completely, I'll explain."
Martha's smile was a bridge across the divide of fear. Slowly, Sarah emerged, small legs brushing against the quilt. She settled onto her tiny knees, her eyes a light, Mediterranean blue, radiating joy even in a world that often seemed to crumble around her. Crumbling was something Sarah had never truly understood.
"What's your name?" Martha asked.
"Sarah," she replied softly.
"I like that... it's lovely. My name is Martha Edwards."
"Like... a second version of Mr. Edwards?" Sarah's voice wavered, questioning and bright all at once.
"No... no... I'm his sister. There are no second versions of anyone, darling."
"So it's true! You're really part of Mr. Edwards's family!" Sarah beamed, a smile lighting her small face.
"Yes... that's right. Why did you think I knew him?" Martha asked, gently touching Sarah's shoulder. The child laughed, delighted by the connection.
Sarah's gaze lingered, caught in the brightness of Martha's green eyes. "Why... why are your eyes green?"
"You've never seen green eyes before?" Martha asked, amused.
"No... they're very pretty."
Martha nodded playfully. "Green is the color of hope."
"Do you... have a lot of hope?"
"Yes... I work somewhere hope cannot be lost. If it were, for instance, this room would lose its color."
Sarah tilted her head, curiosity sparkling. "Why?"
"It's... complicated for a little girl to understand," Martha said softly, "but someday, you'll see. Now, I must go. It was wonderful to meet you, Sarah."
Martha offered a small, tender hug.
"Same... goodbye..." Sarah whispered, her voice a mixture of awe and shyness as Martha stood and waved a gentle farewell, leaving the child behind with her thoughts, her bear, and a faint glimmer of hope lingering in the soft green light of the room.
Martha and Edwards crossed paths again, just as they had before—each traveling the same lane as the first time, but this time their destinations reversed, as though fate had simply turned the map upside down. They exchanged the same brief nod as before, a silent recognition in passing, a gesture that carried more weight than either would admit. At 7:34, their eyes had met in the cool breath of morning; now the digital clock on Edwards's dashboard read 8:06, and the sun was already climbing.
And it climbed, and climbed, until noon burned the world at its zenith.
The trimmed grass of a clear, open field watched in stillness as several men unloaded shovels, tossing them aside to a nearby garage, and replaced them with the cold weight of weapons, each item placed deliberately into its rightful place, like ritual offerings.
Raphael stood apart, his posture one of practiced patience. Paulie approached him, the sharp scent of tobacco lingering as Raphael held a cigar between his teeth.
"What's our next move?" Raphael asked, his voice rough with the smoke.
Paulie glanced around, his eyes scanning the horizon as if the air itself could be eavesdropping. Though they were far from the nearest sign of humanity, his instincts were old and sharp.
"We need to find someone... Go to this address," Paulie said, handing him a folded scrap of paper, its creases worn and edges frayed.
Raphael unfolded it, his brow furrowing. "What's this for?"
"Just take a couple of your men and start asking questions there," Paulie replied.
But before Paulie could turn away, Raphael's hand came down heavily on his shoulder.
"Wait... How did you get this?"
"I have contacts. This is a favor we owe someone."
"To who—?"
"I'm not telling you. Just do your damn jo—"
"I'm not doing anything until you tell me who we're after," Raphael cut in, his tone edged with defiance. "I don't kill for the sake of killing, Paulie."
Paulie exhaled sharply, tilting his head to the sky as though weighing whether this conversation was worth his time.
"We owe Edwards a favor," he finally said.
Raphael's laugh was short, sharp, and humorless. "Edwards? You mean that bounty hunter who's only good for throwing us scraps of work? We lose money every time you hand something over to him. He's not even part of our crew."
"Cleaning isn't work, it's an obligation," Paulie snapped back. "He cleans our tracks, we clean the bodies. That's how it works. And just because you don't make more than you already do—which, let's be honest, is a lot, doesn't mean I'm losing money. You should feel privileged to be in this position... So drop your damn ego. You know better than anyone, there's no getting out of this business."
Raphael's jaw tightened. He turned, signaling with a flick of his hand to three men who had just returned their weapons to the garage.
"You three, with me. We've got work," he said curtly.
One of them hesitated. "Do we need the guns? We already left them—"
"You won't need them. I've got a revolver, and that'll be enough. Come on, let's go."
Without another word, he climbed into the driver's seat of a black SUV, its dark metal gleaming under the punishing noon sun. The others followed, and the engine roared to life, carrying them toward an address whose meaning only Paulie—and Edwards—truly understood.
On the other side of the city, beneath the weight of an unremarkable apartment ceiling, a caretaker knelt beside Jordan's bed, gently trying to awaken memories that had long since slipped away. She held a photograph in front of him, a frozen fragment of the past, but Jordan sat there, a figure lost in the fog of confusion.
"Do you remember this?" the caretaker asked softly, her voice like a small candle flickering in the dim room.
From the doorway, Kimberly watched, her eyes swollen and red from endless worry and sleepless nights. She saw Jordan's vacant gaze, his mind wandering far from the photograph and the life it represented.
"No... who is she?" Jordan asked, his finger pointing hesitantly at the girl cradled in his lap.
"She? That's your daughter! Iris... you visited her the other day..."
"Where?"
"At the hospital... This photo was from her eleventh birthday... Do you know how old she is now?"
Jordan's brow furrowed, a storm cloud of frustration passing over his features. "No... I don't know anything, okay? Stop bothering me with this nonsense."
With a grunt, he rose from the bed, his body moving with stubborn detachment. But his wife reached out, grabbing his arm at the doorway.
"Wait... the session isn't over..."
Jordan jerked free, the motion sharp enough to make the air crack. "I need a break!" he said, and left, the door clicking shut behind him.
Kimberly turned to the caretaker, her voice a whisper weighed down by dread. "I think there's something more than Alzheimer's going on here..."
The caretaker rose slowly, her movements deliberate. Behind her, family photographs sat crookedly on a sideboard, silent witnesses to memories that refused to stay intact.
"Then tell me... what could it be?" Kimberly asked, her voice trembling.
"CJD... it's the only thing I can find. But he moves remarkably well for a degenerative disease like Alzheimer's. Bring him to the hospital tomorrow. We'll run one last test, understood?"
Kimberly's hands shook as she clutched the edge of a table. "And... if he tests positive for CJD... what is CJD?"
The caretaker's voice lowered to a near whisper, each word a jagged stone in the room. "It's a rare, fatal prion disease that attacks the brain. It can erase memory, alter personality, degrade cognition... and... it kills."
Kimberly brought her hands to her mouth, the weight of the words pressing down like a stone in her chest. "How long... how long does someone live with this?"
"Just a few weeks..." The room fell into a heavy silence, broken only by Kimberly's soft, almost inaudible, "Oh God..."
The caretaker offered a look of gentle sympathy before turning toward the door. She paused at the threshold, as if the weight of what she'd just said hung there, unspoken but understood.
"Will Iris have time to see her father?" Kimberly asked, her voice trembling through the quiet.
The caretaker stopped, her hand on the frame, and looked back once—an echo of reassurance before disappearing down the hall. The apartment felt suddenly emptier, the air thick with absence, and Kimberly's heart felt like it was shattering piece by piece.
Edwards, on the other way, decided to spend the afternoon with Sarah, the quiet kind of time where no words are strictly necessary, only presence. She sat perched atop a large chair at the kitchen counter, legs dangling, absorbed in the paper before her. Edwards leaned against the edge of the countertop, watching her, a silent observer of the ceaseless motion of a child who never seemed to tire.
She was drawing, painting in long, deliberate strokes.
"I don't want you to see it until it's finished," she said, her small voice firm but gentle.
"Alright, Miss..." Edwards straightened, stepping back slightly, picking up an old-fashioned telephone, the kind with buttons worn smooth from years of use. He dialed a number, the line buzzing faintly as Sarah picked up a black marker and began sketching across the crumpled sheet, torn from a nearby notebook. Lines and shapes grew under her tiny hands, the paper folding and wrinkling with every thoughtful stroke.
The phone ceased its quiet buzzing.
"How's it going?" Edwards asked into the receiver.
"I sent Raphael to the orphanage where Richardson's mother is supposed to be," Paulie's voice came through, tense and clipped. "See if he could get her address..."
"Good... good..."
"But Edwards, we need to be ready for this... you have to go to Iris's house."
"Why?" Edwards asked, watching Sarah's small fingers glide across the paper as she traced shadows and curves, her mind elsewhere entirely.
"If you can... you need to send Sarah there. We need clues... to know what really happened..."
Edwards's jaw tightened. "Look, Paulie... don't talk to me about this now. I just called to check on progress, not to argue. I'll be there tomorrow... without Sarah. I'm not putting her through another ordeal." He hung up, exhaling slowly, a weight lifting from his shoulders but replaced with quiet worry.
"All done, Mr. Edwards!" Sarah's voice rang with pure joy, her little face lit up with pride.
Edwards waited a beat, then walked over and took the drawing from her hands. "This is for you..." she said shyly, eyes sparkling with innocent delight.
He unfolded the paper and studied it. It was a chaotic masterpiece, as only a child's imagination could produce: a small girl roughly drawn, a pink flower on her arm, and a massive shadow, deep black, arching beside her. Behind them stood a cheerful yellow house, roof bright red, almost jarring in its childish perfection.
Edwards stared at it, trying to read the story hidden in the crayon lines, wanting to ask questions but hesitating. Above the scene, a single emerald-green eye watched over everything, intense and unyielding, as if the paper itself were alive with some quiet knowing.
"I'll put it in my room..." he murmured, carefully folding it and tucking it away, giving the drawing the respect a small child's truth deserved.
Sarah's smile widened, a beam of unfiltered happiness. "Thank you, Mr. Edwards," she said softly.
Edwards nodded, his eyes lingering on the little artist for a moment longer. In that simple act, in the exchange of a drawing and a glance, there was a bridge of trust, of silent understanding—a fragile thread connecting the world of a child and the worn heart of a man who had seen far too much. Edwards approached the room where he slept, placing Sarah's drawing carefully on the bedside table, atop Iris's analytics. The walls were sterile, a stark white that seemed to swallow the light of the late afternoon sun. A day passed in this rhythm, the sun dipping and climbing again, indifferent to the quiet turmoil within these walls.
Martha moved through her tasks with the precision of a conductor orchestrating two symphonies at once. Her notes were scattered, her folder left open on the table as she prepared for the next procedure. Iris was gently lifted from the stretcher and placed on the movable hospital bed, transported carefully to the radiography area, where the great machine awaited.
Martha adjusted everything with meticulous care, sliding the girl into the machine as it hummed and whirred. Through the glass window, Martha's emerald eyes seemed to pierce Iris's closed lids, as if her gaze had become its own laser, mapping every secret shadow of her being. The light reflected in her eyes was almost ethereal, a quiet hope shining against the sterile white and cold steel.
A nurse approached, soft footsteps echoing in the room. "We've already done the tests on Mr. Jordan..."
Martha exhaled slowly, bracing herself. "And the results?"
"Yes... he has CJD... it's confirmed."
Martha drew in a steadying breath, the weight of the news settling like stones in her chest. Jordan... Iris's father... this reality struck her with quiet inevitability. Her gaze remained fixed on the radiography machine as it completed its cycle, the red and infrared waves fading, leaving only the hum of mechanical stillness behind.
She straightened, recovering her posture, her hands brushing lightly over her notes. "Send me the results at snack time," she said to the nurse, her voice calm but firm, the faint green of her eyes beginning to soften. The nurse nodded, taking Martha's folder and moving silently away, leaving Martha alone with the hum of the room and the fragile quiet of Iris resting within the machine.
Outside, the sun continued its relentless rise, but inside, in that small room of white and light, hope and despair danced together, delicate as a shadow on the wall.
From tension, the moment shifted into silence—the silence of thoughts, of memories, of the dark moments that linger in corners of the mind. A house, stark white and almost minimalistic, sat alone, as if it had been inspected and stripped bare. The furniture stood empty, shadows stretching under lowered blinds.
Through the front door, Edwards entered with Paulie, the latter still brushing past the police tape like a shadow moving through invisible threads. Edwards's gaze swept across the space—the grand staircase to the side, the trail of blood Iris had left behind, dried and cracked like desert soil.
He approached the stairs, scanning every detail. "Looks like the police want to leave the prints for further investigation..." Paulie remarked casually, though Edwards's mind was already a labyrinth of possibilities, calculating how Iris might have fallen. Step by step, he ascended, noticing how the stairs protested under his feet, creaking more than usual. A single drop of dried blood clung stubbornly to the railing, having fallen from somewhere above.
Edwards reached the upper floor, pausing to look back at the base of the stairs. "No need to come up, Paulie... keep watch downstairs," he said. Paulie nodded silently, moving outside. "If you need backup, call me down..."
Edwards continued his survey. The room was a gallery of traces—the broken pieces of a bottle scattered across the floor, streaks of spilled wine glinting under dim light. He carefully stepped around them, his eyes catching a small rubber chair, bright green, a tiny seat meant for Sarah. Its presence here made him pause, and the puzzle pieces of the scene began to align in his mind. Nearby, a beige purse lay just centimeters from the crimson liquid.
He moved to a sunlit room, brighter than the rest of the house, where everything was painted yellow. A white bed lay unmade, a lipstick left open on the sheets. Edwards picked it up, examined it, then carefully placed it inside the purse, returning to the scene with the object safely contained.
Descending the stairs with the purse tucked under his arm, he crossed the police tape and spoke quietly to Paulie. Several people waited outside, watching. "Keep at your work... I know what happened."
Paulie paused, admiration flickering across his face. He smiled faintly. "This guy..." he muttered, then joined Edwards. Another day passed, the emerald-green lawn outside catching the sunlight, shimmering like hope itself, while above, somewhere in the sky, a single vigilant pupil seemed to watch it all.
TO BE CONTINUED...