The rain always fell harder in September. It was as if the sky itself wanted to drown the memories that came clawing back with the wind. Eva stood by the window, her fingers curled around the chipped handle of a teacup, the steam fogging up the glass. Beyond the foggy glass, the small mountain town of Eldridge Valley was quiet—too quiet for someone who had questions clawing at her insides.
Victor would be home soon. He always came back by six. Like clockwork. Like everything else in Eva's life—measured, careful, confined.
She took a sip from her tea, ignoring the bitter aftertaste. She never liked this brand, but Victor said it was good for her. He always said things like that.
"Eva, take your vitamins.""Eva, don't go too far from the house.""Eva, I know what's best."
And she believed him. She had to. He was the only parent she had ever known. At least, the only one she remembered.
But lately, the dreams had returned.
Flashes. A woman with soft brown eyes and long hair. The scent of lavender. The sound of a piano. Then screaming. Red. And sirens. Every time she woke up with a thudding heart and the feeling that she had lost something.
She told Victor once.
He laughed, but his eyes weren't smiling. "Brains are weird," he said, "They make up things when you're lonely. Ignore them, Evie."
She stopped talking about the dreams.
Until today.
Today, while cleaning out the junk drawer in Victor's workshop, she found an old phone. His old phone, dusty and half-dead. Something told her to plug it in, even if she felt like a thief doing it.
It buzzed to life, flickering like an old memory.
There were only a few files left. Most of the storage had been wiped. But one file stood out. It was labeled nothing but a string of numbers—"2005_09_15.mp4".
Curious, she tapped on it.
The screen turned black. Then static. Then… a face.
Victor. Younger. Holding the camera too close to his face. Behind him was a concrete basement wall. And in the far corner
She dropped the phone.
Her own five-year-old face stared back at her from the video, tied to a chair, eyes red from crying.
She stared at the phone on the floor, her breathing quickening. Her chest tightened, her ears rang. That was her. That was her.
What was this?
A prank? A sick joke?
The door creaked.
Victor.
He was home.
Eva stared at the phone, her mind blank, her body frozen.
The video had only played for a few seconds—but those seconds rewrote her entire world. Her own face—small, frightened, bound—was burned into her memory now. And her father—Victor—behind the camera, calm. Cold. Not the man she knew.
Not the man who raised her.
The front door creaked again. Heavy boots on wood. Wet from the rain.
She scrambled.
In a flurry of panic, Eva scooped the phone from the floor, hit the power button until the screen went black, and shoved it back into the drawer. Her hands shook. Her heart thundered in her ears. She barely had time to turn around before Victor entered the kitchen.
"Hey, Evie," he said, shaking the water from his coat. "Raining like hell out there. You stay in?"
She nodded too quickly. "Yeah. Stayed in."
He smiled at her. The same smile he'd worn every day of her life. Comforting. Familiar. Laced now with horror she couldn't unsee.
"Something wrong?" he asked, peering at her.
She forced her mouth into a smile, her face stiff. "Just tired."
Victor walked over and pressed a hand to her forehead. She flinched, but he didn't seem to notice.
"No fever. Maybe you're coming down with something. You've been sleeping okay?"
She hesitated. "Yeah."
A pause.
"Good," he said, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze. "I made stew last night. Heat it, and I'll grab some firewood."
He disappeared down the hallway, boots thudding with each step.
Eva stood motionless, still hearing the video in her head. Her own cries. Victor's voice—eerily calm. The words weren't fully audible in the short clip, but one sentence stuck:
"You'll get her back when I get the money."
What money?What did that mean?
Eva blinked hard, forcing herself to move. She grabbed a pot from the stove and started heating the stew, but her hands trembled. The wooden spoon clattered against the side.
She needed answers.
But she couldn't ask Victor. Not now. Not until she knew more.
Maybe not ever.
Later that night, after Victor had gone to bed—snoring lightly through the thin walls—Eva crept back into the workshop.
She left the lights off and used her phone's flashlight, wrapping a shirt around the beam to muffle it. She found the drawer again. Pulled it open. Dug out the old phone.
Battery at 17%.
She plugged in headphones, barely breathing, and opened the video again.
This time, she let it play.
The image stabilized. Her five-year-old self squirmed in the chair, cheeks streaked with tears.
Victor stepped back, setting the phone on a table to record.
"You see this?" he said, looking straight into the lens. "This is your daughter. You've got 72 hours. One million. Or I send her back in pieces."
Eva clapped her hand over her mouth.
"I'm not playing games, Claire," he continued. "You think you can take her from me? You think you can keep my daughter? She's mine. I'm done asking nicely."
The video cut.
Eva yanked the earbuds out, her pulse roaring.
Claire
That name. Her mother's name?
Her head swam. She leaned against the workbench for balance, stomach churning.
He lied.
Everything he ever told her was a lie.
He'd said her mother left them. Said she ran off with someone rich. Said Eva was all he had left. Said he fought in court, but the system was rigged.
But the video wasn't a custody dispute.
It was a threat. A ransom.
Which meant—he hadn't lost her.He stole her.
She barely slept that night. Her brain replayed every childhood moment through a cracked lens—birthday candles, hikes in the woods, learning to ride a bike—all moments where she thought Victor had loved her.
Had he?
Or had he just kept her hidden?
The next morning, she woke with a mission. She needed more evidence. More truth. She needed to find out who Claire was. Who she really was. And most of all—
Why had no one found her?
Why hadn't Claire come?
Unless…
Unless Claire was dead.
And Victor had been lying about that, too.
By noon the next day, the skies had cleared, but Eva's mind was anything but. She stood by the window again, same chipped teacup in her hand, but her thoughts were elsewhere—spinning, burning, unraveling every memory she once trusted.
Victor sat across the room, reading the newspaper with his glasses perched on the edge of his nose. He looked like a normal man. Like a father.
But now she knew better.
"Thinking about painting today?" he asked without looking up.
Painting. Her hobby. Or what had been her hobby. She used to paint to soothe herself—landscapes, trees, old barns. Now, every canvas felt like a lie.
"Maybe," she said.
"Good. You've been quiet lately. Thought something was bothering you."
He said it casually. Too casually. She felt his eyes flick to her, just for a second.
She forced a nod. "Just the weather."
He smiled. "Yeah. Always puts people in a funk."
But Eva wasn't in a funk.
She was waking up.
And she had no idea who she really was.
That night, she waited again for Victor to sleep. She counted the minutes after the last floorboard creak upstairs, then waited another full hour before creeping back into the workshop. She brought her laptop this time.
The phone only had a sliver of battery left. She turned it on one last time.
No messages. No contacts. No call logs.
He'd wiped everything… except that one video.
Why? Why keep it at all?
Maybe because he didn't think she'd ever find it.
She opened the gallery, scrolled through the device, and found one more thing—something that made her heart skip.
A blurry picture. Time-stamped September 2005. A woman—mid-thirties, with dark hair, pale skin—holding a little girl with a pink backpack. The girl looked scared. The woman looked proud.
And behind them was a school sign: "Westridge Academy — First Day!"
Eva whispered the name aloud: "Westridge Academy…"
She took a screenshot. Saved it to her own phone.
Her fingers moved faster than her thoughts. She searched the name on her phone's browser. There it was—Westridge Academy, a private school in New Hampshire. Still operating.
Her hands shook again.
She had never been to New Hampshire. Victor had told her they had lived in Oregon since she was born.
Lie.Another one.
She scrolled further, trying to find yearbooks, news, anything.
Then she found it.
A news article. Archived. Dated October 2nd, 2005.
Headline:"Family Tragedy: Local Heiress and Parents Found Dead Days After Child's Disappearance."
Text:In a devastating turn of events, 34-year-old Claire Westmore and her parents, Richard and Joan Westmore, were found murdered in their home on Friday evening. The discovery comes just six days after the reported kidnapping of Claire's 5-year-old daughter, Lena Westmore.
Authorities suspect the abduction and killings are linked, though no suspects have been publicly named. A ransom demand was confirmed by police, but has not been detailed. The missing child has not been found.
FBI and state investigators are continuing the search for young Lena.
"Someone out there knows where she is," said Detective Allan Pierce. "We urge anyone with information to come forward."
The phone nearly slipped from her hand.
Lena.That was her. That was her real name.
She wasn't Eva Bryant.
She was Lena Westmore, the daughter of a murdered heiress. A kidnapped child. A face on a missing persons report, two decades old.
Everything inside her went still.
Victor—no, not Victor. Her kidnapper had killed her mother.
He hadn't said she left. He hadn't said she died in an accident.
He had murdered her.
Eva — Lena — felt the air leave her lungs.
She backed away from the table, pressing her hand to her mouth to stop from crying out.
The picture. The video. The article.
This was real.
All of it.
And Victor—who had tucked her in at night, who braided her hair as a little girl, who taught her how to ride a bike—had stolen her life.
He was a murderer.
She had to get out.
She had to run.
But how?
And to where?
She didn't know anyone. She didn't even remember being Lena. She had no ID, no family, no proof. And if she ran and he caught her...
She didn't want to think about that.
Eva—Lena stared at the laptop screen as the article faded into the background. Her mind was already racing ahead.
There was one place to start.
Westridge Academy.
If she had any chance of piecing together her identity, she had to go to where it all began. Maybe someone remembered her. Maybe records still existed. Maybe someone out there still cared.
Someone who could help her.
Because if she stayed here, with him…She might not live long enough to remember who she really was.
The old floorboard groaned above her.
Victor was awake.
Lena froze. Her laptop is still open. The kidnapper's phone warmed in her hand. Her own heartbeat thundered in her ears. She turned off the screen, shoved the phone back into the drawer, and slipped her laptop into her coat.
Another step above.
Then the toilet flushed. A moment later, the floor creaked again—this time back toward his bedroom.
She didn't move. She didn't even breathe.
She waited in the dark until the house was still again.
Then she exhaled, slowly. Quietly. The kind of breath that felt like it might be her last if she didn't play this right.
Back in her room, she locked the door—not that it would stop him if he tried.
Her mind swirled with images of the woman in the article. Claire Westmore. Her mother. Her real mother.
Dead.
Because of him.
And the little girl in the photo. A little girl with soft brown curls and wide eyes. Scared, confused.
That girl was her.
She'd always felt a gap in her memory, but Victor—the man who raised her, lied to her—told her it was nothing. That her dreams were just dreams. That her past didn't matter.
But now she knew the truth: he made sure she forgot. He wanted her to forget.
So she'd never ask questions. So she'd never leave.
Lena wiped her face, trying to steady herself.
She needed a plan.
Step one: Find proof. Real proof.
The video was one thing, but she had no legal documents. No ID. No birth certificate. She had no way to prove she was Lena Westmore. The only person who could confirm it—Victor—was the one who had hidden her identity in the first place.
Step two: Find someone who remembers.
She searched more articles on her laptop—old coverage, mostly archived. Some photos of her mother. One photo of her and her daughter—Lena—leaving a courthouse. The girl in the picture was small, with a stuffed rabbit in her arms.
That rabbit still sat on the shelf in her closet.
She turned slowly toward it. For years, Victor had told her it was something she "won at a fair."
Another lie.
She took the rabbit from the shelf. Hidden under the stitched flap on the back was something she'd never noticed before: a name, faded but still readable in purple marker.
"LENA"
The letters felt like someone shouting through the years.
She clutched the rabbit and sat back down at her desk.
By the next day, the decision was made.
She couldn't confront him—not yet. If she did, he'd lie again. Or worse.
She had to leave.
She planned it out in her head. Victor had a doctor's appointment the next morning in the next town over. He usually left at 9 a.m. and returned by lunch. She had a three-hour window.
One bus ran from Eldridge Valley into New Hampshire every afternoon. It would take most of the day, but it would get her to the city. From there, she could get to Westridge. Or the police. Or anyone.
She rehearsed it in her mind: pack light. Only essentials. Documents. Clothes. Cash. Her phone. The rabbit.
Everything else could be replaced.
That night, Victor made stew again.
He watched her as she ate. Smiling. Calm. But Lena noticed now—he always watched her too closely. Like he was making sure she didn't slip out of his grasp.
"Did you sleep better last night?" he asked.
She nodded. "Yeah."
"Good," he said, wiping his mouth. "You were restless the night before. Talking in your sleep."
She froze.
He smiled again. "Said something about Westridge."
Her spoon hit the edge of the bowl with a clang.
He noticed.
"I didn't say anything," she said too quickly.
Victor's eyes didn't leave her. "You did. I heard it."
A long pause.
Then he leaned back in his chair and said, so softly, it made her blood turn to ice:
"You know, there's nothing for you out there, Eva. People will lie to you. They'll use you. Twist things. Make you think you're someone you're not."
Lena swallowed hard.
"But I've protected you from all that, haven't I?"
She stared at him.
"You're safe here," he said. "With me. Just remember that."
She forced a nod.
Then excused herself and went to bed.
She didn't sleep that night.
She packed in silence, just a small bag—one that wouldn't raise suspicion. She slipped the rabbit into it last, pressing it between her clothes like a secret.
When the sun rose, she watched Victor drive off down the old gravel road in his pickup.
As soon as the truck was out of sight, Lena grabbed her bag, stuffed the old phone and her laptop into it, and walked out the back door. She didn't look back.
The bus stop was two miles down the hill. She took the wooded path instead of the road. Less visible.
Her shoes got soaked in the morning grass. Her heart pounded with every step.
But she didn't stop.
Not until the clearing opened and she saw the small wooden bench where the bus would come.
She had made it.
She checked the time. Forty minutes early.
She sat.
And waited.
Every rustle in the trees made her flinch. Every car in the distance made her heart slam against her ribs. But no truck appeared. No footsteps. No one is dragging her back.
Then, finally, at 10:03 a.m., the bus rolled up the gravel road in a cloud of dust.
Lena stood.
The door opened. The driver gave her a nod.
"You headed to Hartsville?" he asked.
She nodded. "Yeah. I am."
She stepped inside and didn't look back.
The bus pulled away, and the house on the hill vanished behind the trees.
For the first time in twenty years, Lena Westmore was going home.
Wherever that was.
Whoever she would find there.
Whatever secrets were waiting for her—
She was finally free to learn the truth.