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Chapter 28: Echoes in the Silence
The morning sun filtered through the lace curtains, casting long shadows across the floor. Damien stood by the window, arms crossed, a thousand thoughts warring for dominance in his mind. The revelations of the past few days had uprooted everything he believed about his family, his mother, and himself.Behind him, Clara stirred in the armchair where she had fallen asleep. Her presence had become the only constant in this whirlwind — grounding, steady, and patient."Did you sleep at all?" she asked, her voice still rough with sleep.He glanced back at her, a small, tired smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "A bit. My mind kept running in circles."Clara rose, stretching slightly, and joined him by the window. “What now?”He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “We find Eliott. I need answers he hasn’t given me. If he’s still alive... if he knew I existed all this time...”“You want closure.”“I want truth. All of it. No more pieces. No more half-truths hidden in old letters or
Beneath the Dust of Truth
The motel room was quiet, too quiet. Damien stood by the window, fingers curled around the curtain's edge as he peered outside, his thoughts far from the dusty parking lot. Clara sat at the small table in the corner, flipping through Raymond Marshall’s file. The air smelled of old wood, cheap air freshener, and something unspoken—anxiety."He kept everything," Clara said softly, laying out the documents. "Even Margaret's last therapy notes."Damien turned. "He was planning something. Or... maybe he was trying to protect her.""Why would someone trying to protect her go into hiding?" she asked, not accusing, but genuinely puzzled.He walked over, dropping into the chair across from her. "Because someone scared him off. Beatrice, most likely. Maybe Luther. Or both."She didn’t argue. Instead, she held up a faded photograph of Margaret with a younger Beatrice. They were smiling, linked arm-in-arm."I can’t wrap my head around it," Clara muttered. "They were friends. Once. Real friends. W
The Shadow of Raymond Marshall
The morning light bled into the sky like watercolors on wet parchment. Clara stood by the motel window, the curtain drawn halfway as she watched the sunrise pierce through the distant hills. She hadn’t slept. Not really. Neither had Damien. The name they uncovered last night — Raymond Marshall — still echoed in the air like a storm waiting to crash down.Damien sat on the edge of the bed, lacing up his boots. His face was unreadable, the lines around his eyes more pronounced than usual. Clara could feel the tension in his silence.“You sure about this?” she asked, turning from the window.He didn’t look at her. “I need to know who he is. What he knows. If there’s a chance he was connected to my mother… I can’t ignore that.”She nodded. It was personal now. More than just secrets. This was about blood.They hit the road by eight. The address they found, scribbled on the back of the photograph tucked inside Damien’s mother’s journal, led to a remote cabin on the edge of Sterling Pines.
Secrets In The Silence
ASHGROVE TOWN The town of Ashgrove was quieter than usual. A chilling kind of quiet, like the earth itself was holding its breath. The wind whispered across rooftops, and shadows stretched a little longer than they should. In the heart of that silence, Damien Creed stood at the edge of what used to be his family’s greenhouse. The air smelled like rust and memory. Faint traces of lilac and burnt wood. This greenhouse was once his mother’s sanctuary—her personal Eden. Now it stood crumbled, its glass panes shattered like the truth that had recently come to light. Damien bent down, fingers brushing against a broken shard. It reflected his face—split in two. "Why did you lie to me?" he whispered into the ruin, his voice cracking. He wasn’t sure if he was talking to the wind, his mother’s memory, or the woman who had vanished into history. Footsteps approached from behind. "I thought I’d find you here," Clara’s voice broke gently through the quiet. Damien didn’t turn. His voice was l
The Mask Beneath the Mirror
CLARA'S POV The old Sterling estate stood still in the soft whisper of dusk. A thin veil of mist hugged the trimmed hedges, and the brittle trees scratched against the windowpanes like skeletal fingers. Clara sat by the window of her childhood bedroom, legs folded beneath her, her fingers trembling as she traced the edges of the locket she found tucked inside her mother’s old jewelry box.It had taken her days to gather the courage to confront what she now suspected: her mother’s disappearance wasn’t what the town believed. It wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t a fleeing. It was something darker—something carefully buried beneath grief and politeness.DAMIEN'S POVAcross town, Damien stood before a dusty filing cabinet inside the town’s abandoned municipal archives. His flashlight cut narrow tunnels of light through cobwebs and debris, the silence around him deafening. He thumbed through manila folders, most unmarked, until he found one labeled "Elizabeth Sterling – 1999." His hands grew
The Dead Don't Whisper
Clara had never believed in ghosts, but standing in the dim light of the attic, surrounded by the faint scent of mildew and secrets, she wasn’t so sure anymore. Dust danced in the sunlight slicing through the cracks in the roof, catching on wooden beams like whispers hanging in the air. Every creak beneath her feet made her heart skip. And the box she had just unearthed—tucked beneath rotten floorboards—felt like something sacred. Or cursed. Damien stood behind her, unusually silent. His hands were stuffed into his coat pockets, but his jaw was clenched. He looked like he’d seen this place before—not just the attic, but the moment itself. Like some forgotten memory had stirred and crawled up his spine. Clara sat cross-legged on the attic floor, the wooden box in front of her. She lifted the lid carefully, as if afraid it might bite. Inside were photos, yellowed envelopes, a velvet ribbon still faintly smelling of lilac. Her fingers trembled as she lifted the top photo. Her mother.
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