The hallway seemed longer that night, its walls lined with the ghosts of framed photographs. My heels clicked against the marble floor as I followed my memories toward the door, but every step dragged me deeper into another time—back when my mother's laughter still filled these rooms.
The chandelier above, once golden in her presence, felt cold now, like a relic that refused to forget. I caught a glimpse of her portrait on the wall, the smile I'd inherited but never worn as easily. For a moment, the air smelled like her perfume—jasmine and sandalwood—and the memory of her soft hand brushing my hair back made my chest tighten.
I reached my room on the second floor, open it softly, I turned on the light.
The old floorboards groaning beneath me, and opened the door softly—as if afraid to wake someone who no longer slept here.
The light clicked on, flooding the room with a pale glow. Everything was exactly as I'd left it years ago: the bookshelf leaning with dog-eared novels, the desk still scarred from typewriter keys I'd hammered into it, the faint trace of my mother's hand lingering in the curtains she'd sewn herself.
I stood in the doorway, breathing it in. This was where I'd grown up, where I'd scribbled my first article drafts under her watchful smile, where I'd dreamed of being like her—brave, unshakable, untouchable.
I traced my fingers on the table, is completely clean. Helen always cleans my room, I know it.
I open the drawer out, everything is organised—my pictures, my scribble, my album where I draw Tommy Shelby—but in a Prince version. So stupid.
I turn each page, just to look at them, these are all of my happiest memories I ever had, no worries, no burden, just me—and a dream that I think it will come true.
Helen's voice drifted into the doorway before I even realized she'd followed me upstairs.
"Cara, ancora qui, in questa stanza?" (Darling, still here, in this room?)
Her tone was syrup, thick and cloying. She stepped inside, fingertips brushing the curtain.
"La tua mamma aveva davvero un gusto… semplice, non credi?" (Your mother really had such… simple taste, don't you think?)
I stiffened, the air in my chest turning to glass.
"Non parlare di lei." (Don't talk about her.)
Helen only sighed as though I were a child refusing medicine.
"Oh, ma io parlo solo con affetto." (Oh, but I only speak with affection.)
Her eyes lingered on the framed photograph of my mother by the desk. "Sai, a volte la presenza di qualcuno… rimane troppo a lungo. Forse è il momento di lasciare andare." (You know, sometimes someone's presence… stays too long. Maybe it's time to let go.)
Her smile sharpened as she straightened the frame.
"Tuo padre ha bisogno di una donna viva accanto a sé, non di un fantasma." (Your father needs a living woman beside him, not a ghost.)
The words cut deeper than her smile, and before I could stop myself, I spat back—
"E lui ha scelto un fantasma travestito." (And he chose a ghost in disguise.)
For a flicker of a second, her smile faltered. Then Claudia laughed softly, adjusting her pearl bracelet, as if my anger were the proof of her victory
Claudia's laugh was soft, almost triumphant, when a voice cut through the doorway.
"Funny, I didn't know ghosts wore pearls."
We both turned. Lucas leaned lazily against the frame, arms crossed, eyes cool but steady. He hadn't even bothered to hide that he'd been listening.
Her smile froze, then slid back into place like a mask. "Ah, Lucas," she purred, switching to English now. "Always with the sharp tongue. You should be careful—sarcasm ages the face."
I just chuckled with her funny accent—she trying to be native, I just focusing on packaging my belongings into my small bag—my album, scribble, my old laptop laying under books, and especially—my mother picture in small frame putting on the desk. Then gliding toward the door.
"Goodnight, cara," she said sweetly over her shoulder, voice dripping with mockery. "Don't let the ghosts keep you awake."
I held her gaze, my voice low, stripped of warmth.
"Goodnight, Helen. May your dreams be as empty as your heart."
Her smile faltered for the briefest second before it snapped back into place. She swept past me toward the master bedroom, her perfume lingering like a clawing ghost.
The slam of the car door felt too loud in the silence of the driveway. Lucas started the engine, headlights washing over the iron gates before cutting into the night. Neither of us spoke as the house shrank in the rearview mirror, swallowed by darkness.
I pressed my forehead lightly against the glass, watching the blur of streetlamps pass like metronomes. Tick. Tick. Tick. Each one lining up, perfect, measured—until one flickered. My chest tightened instantly.
"Goddammit," I muttered under my breath. My fingers twitched against my knee—tap, tap, tap, three times, then again, three times. If I didn't do it, something worse would happen. Maybe the car would crash. Maybe Father would never wake up from his drunken sleep. Maybe the screams would come back louder.
The slam of the car door felt too loud in the silence of the driveway. Lucas started the engine, headlights washing over the iron gates before cutting into the night. Neither of us spoke as the house shrank in the rearview mirror, swallowed by darkness.
I pressed my forehead lightly against the glass, watching the blur of streetlamps pass like metronomes. Tick. Tick. Tick. Each one lining up, perfect, measured—until one flickered. My chest tightened instantly.
The city lights faded behind us, leaving stretches of road so empty it felt like the night had swallowed everything. My hands were trembling again, fingers tapping against my knee—tap, tap, tap—like some fucking ritual I couldn't escape.
"I hate this shit," I finally spat, voice sharp and ragged. "I fucking hate that I can't stop. The counting. The tapping.
I can feel everything every time I close my eyes, when I wash my hands. The bodies— I see it again—and again.
He glanced at me, voice low and clipped, "Jesus, Anna… that's… fucked up."
I let out a shaky breath, bitter. "Yeah..fucked up"
"Does your father know it?" He asked, his eyes still glued on the road.
"Nah—,". I trailed off. "I just have these shitty after I start to study at that shitty place…and after she gone."
The car sank into silence after that, the kind that presses against your chest and makes every breath feel heavier. Neither of us spoke, just the soft hum of the engine filling the space between us.
I realized the radio had turned on somewhere along the way, low and almost unnoticed, the anchor of distant voices talking about the economy, stock prices, and interest rates. Numbers, graphs, and charts—futile, sterile, nothing to do with the mess in my head.
Finally, he let out a long, frustrated sigh. "You know… it's not just you, Anna." He kept his eyes on the road, voice rougher now. "I've seen shit too. Things that would make your nightmares look like fucking cartoons."
I raised an eyebrow, curious despite the weight pressing on me. "Oh really? Mister Air Force hero?"
"Shut up," he snapped, then immediately softened, running a hand through his hair. "Seriously. I've held bodies of people who didn't make it. Watched friends… die because someone else fucked up. And I… I still carry that shit around like some goddamn trophy I never wanted."
I studied him, surprised. The layers of sarcasm, humor, bravado—suddenly peeled back. "And you just… drive at night and pretend it's fine?"
"Yeah, sometimes," he admitted, voice tight. "Sometimes I drink. Sometimes I swear at everything that moves. Sometimes I just fucking stare at the ceiling, hoping it'll all make sense. But most nights, I just… keep going. Because if I stop, if I let it take me… then it wins. Just like your loop, Anna."
I let that sink in, smoke curling from my lips. "So… you get it, huh?"
He smirked faintly, bitter and tired. "I get that you're not crazy. You're fucking human, Anna. And you've been carrying more than anyone should. So yeah… I get it."
Our eyes met , his eyes softened when he looked at me.
The car sank into silence after that, the kind that presses against your chest and makes every breath feel heavier. Neither of us spoke, just the soft hum of the engine filling the space between us.
I realized the radio had turned on somewhere along the way, low and almost unnoticed, the anchor of distant voices talking about the economy, stock prices, and interest rates. Numbers, graphs, and charts—futile, sterile, nothing to do with the mess in my head.
and authorities are still investigating the break-in spree across the West End. Police report that several businesses were targeted last night, possibly by the same suspects seen fleeing near Ashford Street. Residents are urged to stay vigilant…"
I stiffened, every muscle in my body tightening. Ashford Street. That was the area I'd been mapping for the NJC case, the one I'd been working on alongside Detective Marchand and a handful of other officers.
"They trying to reassure us—," I murmured.
"About what?". He asked.
I didn't answer. My hands twitched against the seat, fingers tapping the invisible pattern I couldn't stop. My mind went over the layout, the escape routes, the CCTV positions, and the faces of people I'd questioned—all of it replaying like a movie I couldn't.
""Good evening, listeners. You're tuned to National Radio. Tonight, our headlines: a series of urban incidents across the city. First, police report another break-in spree in Prenzlauer Berg—several shops targeted last night. Authorities urge anyone with information to contact the National Crime Hotline."
"It's Margaret—the host". She is my favourite host, her voice, her behaviour,is ten out of ten, her talent,her hypnosis —make me doubt about myself a lot.
Meanwhile," the host continued, voice calm but urgent, "a traffic altercation on Oranienstraße escalated into a violent assault. Officers on patrol were able to detain two suspects, though investigations continue. Citizens are reminded to remain vigilant and report suspicious behavior."
My fingers tapping fastly on my knees, I figuring out a 3D map in my head.
My heart thumped. Prenzlauer Berg, Oranienstraße, Mitte—they were all part of the web I'd been tracing, every incident a thread connecting back to the bigger picture. My breath quickened, hands tapping faster. I could feel the OCD gripping me—the need to organize, catalog, control the chaos.
He didn't say anything, just drove on, letting me sink into the noise, the reports, and the mental maps only I could see. Even National Radio's calm, authoritative voice couldn't drown the storm inside—but for a moment, it felt like I could ride it, survive it, and maybe, just maybe, stay a little less alone.
He drove and parked the car while I'm still engrossed in those news. Tapping his fingers on the window glass.
"Hey! I think you don't want to sleep in my car tonight, let's go!" He speaks through the glass of of my window.
I looked at the radio, hesitated before turning it off.
The hotel appeared like a soft island of light on the otherwise dark street, its glass entrance reflecting the city in fractured shards. Lucas slowed, the tires crunching lightly against the curb. I could feel the tension in him, the way his jaw flexed, the faint edge of worry in his eyes.
"You okay?" he asked, though I knew the answer before I spoke.
"I… yeah," I muttered, though the words sounded hollow even to me.
We walking inside to the receptionist. The lobby smelled faintly of disinfectant and polished wood, a clean, sterile kind of calm that only made the chaos in my head sharper. Lucas strode ahead, holding the door for me, but I lingered a step behind, eyes scanning everything—the corners, the elevators, the faint glint of metal in the railings. Every detail demanded attention, every shadow whispered possibilities.
"Room's this way," Lucas said, voice low, almost careful, as if aware I was already teetering on the edge.
I followed, hands clasped together, tapping a pattern I couldn't stop. The sequence wasn't for anyone else; it was for me—to make the storm inside feel like it had an order, a rhythm.
Lucas set the suitcase down by the bed and looked at me, his expression soft but tense. "You can… just sit," he said. "I'll make coffee, or tea, whatever you want. Just… take a moment."
This room is single bed, the bed is big, but spending the night with my friend on this bed is quite—not appropriate much.
I intend to book a room but he already blocked my ideas. "This room is what they have left, all of remains already being booked".
He let out a dry chuckle. "How lucky I am"
'Then I will sleep on the couch tonight, you can have the bed then—.." I'm holding my bag and put it under my head as for pillow, I take the bath towel as a blanket for my night tonight. Lucas just shrugged nonchalantly and went to the bathroom.
I slumped back against the couch in the hotel suite, the upholstery too stiff to be comforting, too clean to feel like it belonged to me. From my bag, I pulled out the worn leather album—its edges frayed, the spine threatening to give—and set it on my lap. My fingers hesitated at the clasp before opening it.
The first page hit me like a fist. My mother, young, hair tied back, smile careless. My chest tightened—too bright, too alive. My fingers hovered over the picture but I couldn't touch it, not directly. I tapped the corner three times instead, a ritual to keep my hands steady.
Next: her wedding portrait. My throat locked. She stood in white, the veil uneven, her smile so big it looked almost reckless. Beside her, Father—stone-faced, jaw clenched, like even in that moment he was ashamed to let the world see softness. My stomach churned; I heard glass clinking, a knife scraping porcelain. Dinner-table sounds. Too loud. Too sharp
I almost smile at my mother face when she having me inside her belly. With her soft writing letters, "7 months". Her belly round, her face gained weight, is almost adorable.
"You so beautiful, mother". I whispered, more to her than to myself.
I set the album aside, can already feel sting in my eyes. I looked at the mess on the table, stack of files , boxes of cigarettes, under there sat the wooden jewellery box I'd taken from the house, it belonged to her.
I opened the box, the inside smelled faintly her perfume—jasmine and vanilla. Her necklace still here, sapphire and silver, it brightly under the hotel chandelier. Her pair of earrings still glinted as though waiting for her hands.
"Am i look good on it, sweetheart ?" A voice echoing in my mind, a voice from the past, from the dark time. She always did, and she always will.
Lucas emerged from the bathroom, hair damp and sticking in wild tufts like he'd just wrestled a storm, towel slung lazily over one shoulder. He glanced at me hunched over the jewelry box, fingers trembling like a nervous pianist, and smirked.
"Well, well, look at you," he said, leaning against the doorframe with a casual ease. "Plotting world domination with your mom's jewellery collection, or just trying to summon ghosts from the jewelry box? Never thought you are a fan of Oujia board.."
I glared up at him, my hands still on the necklace, he didn't flinch at all. "Very funny". I muttered, voice brittle but sharp.
"Oh, come on," he chuckled, stepping closer and dropping into the chair beside me like he owned the place. "You're sitting there like the weight of the entire universe is balanced on that tiny piece of string. Relax, Anna. It's a ribbon, not a bomb."
His eyes swept over the table before he sit down. He start to look pictures by pictures, the Polaroids that my mom always used for my birthdays or my graduation day. She want to keep those memories on the wall rather than keep it in her phone.
"She didn't trust phones, huh?" he said, shaking his head with a soft laugh. "Good call. Phones die, clouds glitch. But these—" he held up another, me grinning with a diploma clutched too tight—"these outlive us. Can't swipe them away."
"Just can burn them". I softly, tracing the Polaroid have her in the center—where she standing beside me in her ugly green dress I always complain—is still ugly—but everything wears on her is beautiful.
Alright, Chief Detective of the Memory Box, I'm clocking out," he said, yawning like a cat that had nothing in the world to prove. He tugged the towel from his shoulders, tossed it onto the armrest, and padded toward the bed.
The mattress groaned as he dropped onto it, sprawling without ceremony. He didn't bother with covers, just lay there on his back, arms folded behind his head, eyes half-lidded. "Don't stay up all night talking to ghosts, okay?" he mumbled, his voice already thick with sleep. "Some of us need our beauty rest."
Within minutes, his breathing slowed into the steady rhythm of someone who had mastered the art of being unbothered.
"Well, I can call it a night." The words slipped out half-heartedly as I gathered the Polaroids into a tidy stack, sliding them back into my bag with more care than I'd ever admit out loud. My hand brushed against something heavier beneath the leather albums.
I pulled it free. My old MacBook—edges dented, stickers peeling, the silver dulled to a tired grey. Dust clung to its surface like it had been waiting for me all these years. I wiped it down with the side of my sleeve, fingers tracing familiar scratches.
Plugging it into the socket near the desk, I flipped it open, bracing for the blank stare of a dead screen. But the faint glow bloomed, and in the corner, the battery read 54%.
I let out a disbelieving laugh, sharp and quiet. "No fucking way. Four years in a bag and this piece of Mac still holds a charge?" I shook my head, almost smiling desplite the heaviness in my chest. "Guess miracles do happen"
The screen flickered awake with its light, the wallpaper is Tommy—well, the one he standing with Grace—they such a good couple but with a tragic end.
I'm a huge fan of it, so is understandable . The laptop was a mess at that time—folders scattered with names I barely remembered giving them. I looking through files—half finished presentations,my thesis about environmental protection for graduate, many samples, documents being abandoned.
I clicked through out of habit, trying not to think too hard, until my inbox bloomed open.
I went through my group chat— I have a groups of friends of secondary school, we actually can being called "Mean Girls"— we talk shit about teachers, about some nerd being rejected by my friends Kateřina—she such a breathtaking girl at that time, talking tea about some girls trying to be tough in her first semester. I can't bite back a laugh when I saw the text of Merlina— who gossip about her date's size.
She a baddie—in both good and bad way. I looked at the first box chat. "Grumpy Señorita"—mom's nickname I gave her the name when I was twenty, back when I thought it was funny to tease her for always scolding me about my homework or my hair
The chat box opened like a time capsule. The first messages were all emojis and short texts —
Mom: "Dinner in 10. Don't be late."
Me: "Ugh, pizza? 😒"
Mom: "Chicken and potatoes, sweetheart."
My throat tightened. I could almost hear her voice — low, warm, a little dramatic. I flicked down slowly, message by message, watching the years pass. Photos of birthday cakes she'd baked herself. Videos of us dancing in the kitchen. A picture of her in a red dress at my graduation, hair loose, smiling at the camera like she is the one who graduated.
"Goodnight, don't stay up too late or I will beat your ass up ,dear". The latest message she sent me, "24 March 22"—the day I never forget.
The letters blurred as my eyes stung. For a moment the hotel room, Lucas's breathing, the cold glow of the screen — it all disappeared. It was just me, Mom's words, and the hollow space where she should have been.
"Ting"
My eyes looked up when the notification popped up on the screen.
"Still digging?"… from an unknown number.
Another ping, closer this time, as if the message had slipped from the screen into the air around me:
"You shouldn't have opened this."
The hair on my arms prickled. My hand shook violently, but I couldn't close the laptop. I couldn't stop. It was like staring down the barrel of something alive, something hungry, and it was pointing straight at me.
I dropped the MacBook onto the carpet. It hit with a dull, muffled thud, the screen still glowing up at me like a pale, open eye. My mouth went dry. This was impossible. I hadn't logged into anything. I hadn't even entered the Wi‑Fi password. Yet the little icon in the corner mocked me — Connected.
My hands were shaking so violently I couldn't tell if it was the laptop or me trembling. My breath came out in shallow bursts. The air in the room felt too thick, like it had been waiting for this.
And then it happened.
A soft ping cut through the silence. The notification bubble slid up across the screen.
Grumpy Señorita: Typing…
My heart nearly stopped. My mother had been dead for years.
The dots blinked. Once. Twice. Three times. My stomach turned.
Then the words appeared, slow and deliberate, like they were being carved into the screen:
"Go to sleep, sweetheart…"