The river ran like a ribbon of glass, its waters lapping gently against the banks, carrying leaves in slow, whispering dances. The trees swayed in the breeze, each branch like a delicate brushstroke across the sky, as if the world itself were drawing breath after a long, frozen night.
Along the edge of the river, the funeral car arrived, sleek and solemn, its rear facing the water like a sentinel guarding the last journey of a life. From the river, they lifted Kimberly's body. Two men handled her with careful precision, their eyes trained on the work as though they were surgeons of inevitability. They extracted a fragment of bone crushed beneath the weight of her upper palate, inspecting a bullet wound that ran cruelly through her jaw. Her skin had already taken on a bluish pallor, the stiffness of rigor mortis settling into her form, yet decomposition had not yet claimed her.
"Alright," one of them said softly, methodical, "preserve the evidence and send it to the police."
"Understood," the other replied, carefully wrapping the bullet in protective paper. It was placed on the passenger seat, visible through the windshield, a silent testament to what had transpired.
Meanwhile, the lead man studied Kimberly's body in meticulous detail, noting every contortion and every rigid joint. The other man scanned the river, searching for traces of blood or clues, finding nothing.
"Do you know anything about her?" the first asked, the voice quiet, almost lost in the sound of the river.
"Nothing. Not a single thing... but I think she's from Riverside."
The lead man continued his inspection, eyes sharp, fingers tracing the edges of evidence.
"And her blood... it's dissipated. No visible traces."
"Probably happened a day ago, maybe more," the assistant suggested.
He reached into the cold water with gloved hands, the icy touch a reminder that nature could preserve and betray at the same time. "It's hard to tell exactly when she died. The water is cold... decomposition slows. Could be twenty-four hours... or a week."
"I understand," the assistant murmured.
"Confirm rigor mortis," the lead man ordered.
The assistant moved carefully along the body, bending the jaw, flexing the arms, legs, and hips. He removed Kimberly's sodden shoes, placing them aside, then tested the stiffness in her ankles. "Full body, sir. Rigid."
"Good. Then in cold water, I'd estimate one to three days. No soft spots anywhere?"
"No, sir. Though there is internal pooling of blood around the jaw, near the bullet wound. Purple, deep."
"Very well. Billy, come here and stop staring at your phone."
Billy returned, sheepish, and helped the assistant lift the body into the trunk of the funeral car. The lead man settled into the driver's seat, speaking with a purpose that made every word heavy.
"I'll handle finding her records. Hopefully there's a hospital with documentation. Get a photo to me once you have it."
Billy took the phone he had been ignoring, snapped a clear photograph, and sent it over to the lead man. Then, together, the two men carefully positioned Kimberly's body inside the car, closing the trunk with a deliberate finality, as if the echo of the metal latch sealed more than just the compartment, it sealed the first chapter of truth.
Outside, the river whispered and the leaves danced, indifferent to human grief. The world continued its quiet rotations, but here, in this small act, every detail mattered, every fragment of evidence a tether between life and the silence that follows.
The funeral car glided into Riverside, its polished black surface reflecting the cold morning light like a dark mirror. Bruno Campbell, the older man from the funeral home, stepped out with careful precision, his shoes crunching softly against the gravel. He moved toward the hospital entrance, eyes scanning for answers, questions heavy on his shoulders like stones.
"Good morning... I'm Bruno Campbell, from the funeral home," he said to the receptionist, voice measured, respectful.
"Oh... hello, how long has it been?" she replied, puzzled.
"I was wondering... do you know of anyone who has lost their mother and is currently hospitalized here?"
The receptionist hesitated. "Um... I don't think so... I can check, but I don't believe there's anyone."
From the elevator emerged Martha, her face lined with fatigue, dark circles marking sleepless nights. Documents in her hands, she handed them to the receptionist. "Keep this... I think she'll need to come again next week," she murmured, moving back slowly but stopping as she caught Bruno's words.
"We found a body in the Mertens River... probably a suicide, given the wound in the jaw. We just need to know the name and if anyone here might have known her. The police couldn't locate any details, so this is our last option."
Martha leaned against the counter, her sharp eyes meeting Bruno's. "I know who lost her mother."
"You?" Bruno asked, surprise flickering in his expression.
"Yes... she's on the second floor. Are you coming?"
The two rode the elevator in silence, the hum of machinery echoing around them. Bruno's eyes studied her. "You look tired... is it work?"
"No... not the work. Life," she said simply, voice quiet but edged with something heavier.
The elevator doors opened, and Martha led the way, her steps deliberate. A few moments later, she pushed open the hospital room door.
"Mrs. Iris, Mr. Bruno..."
"Bruno Campbell," he said, nodding respectfully.
"That's right... from the funeral home. He wants to speak with you," Martha added.
Iris lifted herself weakly from the bed, wary. "Alright... let him in."
"Remember, Nurse Paula will help you with your legs afterward," Martha reminded gently before stepping back. Bruno entered, solemn, carrying the weight of both grief and responsibility.
"I... I'm very sorry, Mrs. Iris," he began cautiously.
"Yeah... a real sorry," she muttered under her breath, a hint of bitterness in her tone.
"I came to ask about Kimberly—any papers, inheritance, funeral arrangements? We'll take care of it all personally."
"How considerate... No. She left nothing. And neither did my father. They both... died this month."
Bruno fell silent, absorbing the gravity of her words.
"I've been in this hospital so long... I just woke up yesterday. A friend told me all of this. And now... you come to bother me? No. I won't tell you anything. I'm not arranging a funeral just because you expect me to."
"I... unfortunately, that's all I can say..."
"Yes... unfortunately. Now leave. I need to learn to walk again."
"Good day, Mrs. Iris," Bruno said softly as he stepped out, the door closing behind him.
Nurse Paula waited, ready to guide Iris. "Alright... let's start, Iris," she said warmly. She lowered the blanket and helped Iris sit, carefully moving her legs.
"Alright... arms work fine?"
"Yes."
"Good. Now I'll massage your legs to stimulate them. After that, I'll help you walk to this chair," Paula indicated, moving a seat across the room.
"Yes... okay."
Paula began massaging Iris's legs, slow and methodical.
"Do you feel anything?"
"Yes... they're a bit numb, by the way."
"I see," Paula replied, continuing her gentle work. Inch by inch, the muscles relaxed, blood flowing like small streams of renewed life.
"When's lunch?" Iris asked.
"Two o'clock, then dinner at eight, and a small snack at four," Paula responded, finishing the massage and helping Iris to her feet.
Step by step, Iris moved, shaky but determined, gripping Paula's arm for support. In her mind, she imagined Paula as her mother, Kimberly, and beside her, her father's guiding presence. At her side, she pictured Sarah cheering her on. "Come on, Mom! You're there already!" the imagined voice called, urging her forward.
"I'm not afraid... then I am alive. And if I'm not afraid now, it's because the dead themselves support me," Iris whispered to herself, drawing strength from the memory of those she loved.
She let go of Paula's arm, moving faster, fueled by a resolve she hadn't felt in years. Looking toward the ceiling, she sought the presence of her daughter. But when she blinked, Sarah wasn't there.
"Alright, Iris... back to the bed now," Paula encouraged gently.
"Where's my daughter?" Iris asked, breathless.
"She's with Edwards, Mrs. Iris," Paula reassured.
"Good... then she's safe."
They repeated the routine, but now Iris needed no imagination, her own strength carried her. Finally, she lay back, exhausted but victorious, offering silent gratitude to both heaven and hell. Paula stepped back, smiling, satisfied that she had restored life, if only a fraction, to someone who had endured so much.
Outside, the young men who had handled Kimberly's body watched the beginnings of decomposition with grim understanding, knowing what it meant. Bruno returned to the driver's seat, voice steady, determined.
"Alright, boys... time to head to the funeral home."
While Iris lay in her hospital bed, drifting between pain and fragile hope, Edwards sat on the sofa, deep in his own storm of thought. His eyes rested on Sarah, who wandered about the house with the lightness of a child, yet in his mind weighed the burden of an uncertain future. He knew that if he stopped hiding the truth, every path forward would change forever.
The television flickered in the background, delivering its cruel message without hesitation. The headline read simply: "Blonde Woman, Middle-Aged, Found in River." The world did not know her name—not yet. Only Edwards, Sarah, Iris, and the hospital staff carried that secret.
Sarah emerged from her room clutching a fresh drawing, which she fastened to the refrigerator with a small magnet. Edwards did not lift his gaze, still watching the screen with a kind of dread he did not dare to share. But Sarah's innocent eyes caught the image.
"That place... it looks like the river we crossed," she whispered.
Edwards quickly seized the remote, silencing the news with a decisive click. He rose to his feet, the room heavy with his unspoken thoughts. After a pause, he said quietly, "Today, I'm taking you somewhere. A place that may bring back memories... I don't want to, because it isn't good. But you need to let things out. You need to be ready for what I'll tell you."
Sarah stared at him with disbelief, her small brow furrowed. Edwards fetched the keys, his hand lingering on the light switch as he turned off the lamps Sarah had left burning. With a long breath, he led her outside.
In the car, Sarah pressed her hands against the seatbelt to lift herself, peering curiously at the rooftops. But as the streets narrowed and the familiar outlines came into view, recognition began to take root in her. The wheels hummed over the asphalt, black rubber spinning toward a place long buried in shadows. Sarah's pulse quickened.
"Easy... easy," Edwards whispered, almost to himself, breathing deep as though his words could steady them both.
The car stopped. Across the street stood the old house—her house, once Iris's, once Richardson's, the place where tragedy had left its scars. A house where joy had been exiled and only sorrow had ever taken residence.
Sarah's small hands trembled. She tried to piece together the fragments, her young mind working furiously, and Edwards opened her door, steadying her steps as they crossed the stone walkway strewn with fallen leaves. From his pocket, he withdrew a key he thought he would never again use. The lock gave way, and the door swung open.
The house was cleaner than it had ever been, stripped of the chaos that once ruled it. Yet Sarah could still feel what the police could not sweep away: the weight of the past.
"Do you remember?" Edwards asked softly.
Sarah shook her head, unable—or unwilling—to answer. She climbed the stairs, her hand brushing the banister. And then it came: a flood of memory, sharp and undeniable.
"Why did you bring me here?" she asked, voice trembling.
"Because you need to tell me what you remember," Edwards said. Though in truth, that was only half of his purpose.
Sarah opened the door to her mother's old room and ran inside. "Mama was here... with her bag. Richardson had a bottle, he was shouting... She held me, she wanted to leave with me. Everything happened so fast."
"Were you sitting down? On the sofa?" Edwards pressed gently.
"Yes," Sarah nodded, mimicking the position, "like this... And then my father—he pushed my mother. She tried to escape, but the bottle—he threw it and it..." Her words dissolved into sobs, tears streaming down her face.
Edwards watched, silent, but in her tears he found a strange comfort. If she wept now, perhaps she would not drown in grief later.
Finally, he spoke, his voice low but firm. "I didn't bring you here for that. What your father did doesn't matter anymore. He's gone."
Sarah blinked, confused, wiping her cheeks.
"That news on television—the woman they found—that was your grandmother. She chose to leave this world, to reunite with your grandfather in the sky."
Sarah's lips parted. "Grandma? What happened to her?"
"She made a choice," Edwards said carefully. "And listen to me—life doesn't wait for us to be ready. You don't act because you are brave; you act, and then bravery finds you. You don't give because you've received; you receive because you gave first. Life moves forward, always forward. If you're good, Sarah, if you keep your heart true, the pain will pass. Your mother should have told you these things, but sometimes life teaches us through darkness. The darker the memories, the deeper the lessons. Some people cannot bear it... like your grandmother."
Sarah stood silent, unable to process the enormity of what he had said. Her young mind turned slowly, painfully, over memories and griefs she barely understood. The thoughts would come later, he knew. For now, it was enough that she had heard him.
Edwards placed a hand on her shoulder, a faint, weary smile on his face. "Come on, my little rose. Let's leave this place."
And together, they stepped back into the fading light of day, leaving behind the house where sorrow had once lived.
In the hospital's dim corridors, Martha moved with the weariness of someone who carried not only files and responsibilities, but also the weight of her own memories, desires, and quiet fears. She rummaged through her worn leather bag, producing a small jar of roasted almonds. From the corner of the room, her mockingbird stirred in its cage, feathers twitching as it whistled a single, eerie refrain— "almonds..." The sound was soft, almost human, a fragile echo of the life that clung to repetition.
With patient hands, Martha opened the cage, sprinkling a handful of almonds onto the cage floor. The bird descended, its beak piercing the skins with small, deliberate strikes, like a clock ticking against eternity. Closing the cage, Martha slipped into the hallway, her footsteps tapping against linoleum like hesitant punctuation. At reception, she paused, nodding politely to the restless faces waiting their turn, before leaning over to whisper a few hushed words of advice to the young receptionist, her voice steady though her eyes betrayed the fatigue of sleepless nights.
That was when he arrived.
A shadow stepped into the lobby—a hood drawn low, his beard streaked with silver. His voice rasped as he questioned the older receptionist: "Room 278?" The words were too plain, but the presence was enough. Martha's eyes narrowed; recognition pierced through her calm façade. The chill of instinct ran through her as if the mockingbird's cry had been a warning. Without a word, she turned on her heel, stormed back into her office, and slammed the door. Her trembling hands reached for the phone.
Edwards answered immediately, his voice tired but sharp. He had just returned home, Sarah slipping out of her shoes like a child escaping armor. "Yes?"
Martha's words cut like glass. "Come fast. Two seventy-eight. Now."
Edwards dropped the call without hesitation. He left Sarah to her own small sanctuary—already the girl dragged a scrap of paper from the countertop box, pressing it with frantic strokes of crayon. She drew with urgency, as if the act itself could anchor her to memory, to truth, to the fragments she could not yet voice. Her little hands trembled, sketching shapes of trauma, without hesitations.
Meanwhile, Raphael locked himself inside the bathroom. His reflection flickered in the fractured mirror, ghostlike. From his pocket, he retrieved the Swiss knife he had hidden for so long—the red handle marked with the pale white cross of another land. Its blade caught the light like a shard of winter.
The door burst open. Edwards crashed through with the violence of a storm, the two men colliding like beasts in a narrow cage. The knife clattered against porcelain, slipping into the hollow of an open sink. Below, the blade's tip dangled above water, like bait for some unseen fish that would never bite.
Edwards drove Raphael into the stall, splintering the wooden door. Raphael slumped against it, dazed, a ribbon of blood tracing his temple. Edwards' voice thundered through the tiled chamber:
"Where were you going?! Iris is there! You were supposed to protect her!"
He released Raphael, fury simmering into raw breath, eyes darting for the knife. But the weapon was gone, lost down the unseen pipes. In the mirror, cracked and sagging, Edwards saw not his enemy but his own distorted reflection—his face disfigured by fracture, his soul fractured in kind.
Raphael groaned, sprawled across the shattered door like a wounded animal. He barely stirred.
At that same moment, Martha reached Room 278. She stepped inside, her composure already faltering. Iris turned her head from the window, the weight of recovery heavy in her eyes.
"Is everything alright, Mrs. Iris?" Martha asked, voice taut.
"Yes. Why? What's wrong?"
"We have a problem. A very serious one..."
Martha's gaze drifted beyond the window. Across the street, in the shade of distance, a black van waited. Paulie leaned casually against it, a cigar glowing between his lips. A signal—sharp, unspoken—was passed to Tommy. Without a word, Tommy climbed into the van. The doors slammed shut, and the vehicle rolled away, abandoning Raphael to his fate.
Martha's pulse quickened. She excused herself, leaving Iris in the silence of the ward, and walked briskly toward the restroom. What she found was a tableau of violence already gone to stillness: a stall door splintered on the floor, droplets of blood like punctuation scattered across tile and porcelain. The mirror sagged, jagged, on the brink of collapse. The sink gurgled faintly, as if swallowing secrets.
For a moment, Martha stood there, her breath caught. It was as if two phantoms had passed through, leaving behind nothing but chaos. Yet she knew the truth: this was no haunting. This was survival, desperation, betrayal—human hands had torn this place apart.
And Edwards, she realized, had tried to walk away from it.
The thought made her smile, though the smile was cracked, like the mirror above the sink. A smile born not of relief, but of bitter knowledge. Because if Edwards could abandon the violence, then perhaps there was hope. Yet the same knowledge coiled around her heart with dread: if violence had reached even here, in sterile hallways and hidden corners, then truly, no one was safe any longer.
TO BE CONTINUED...