THE SON THEY BURIED WAS THEIR ONLY HEIR

Chapter Twenty: The Doctor's Memory

The morning sun cast its warm glow over Ashcroft Manor, yet an eerie stillness hung in the air, making the grand mansion feel strangely silent.

Benedict hadn't slept.

The memories of what happened at St. Gabriel Children's Home kept playing over and over in his head.

The missing register.

The stolen photograph.

The silver bracelet engraved with Ben.

And Father Michael's final words.

You might recall that Little Ben originated from Dr. Samuel Whitmore.

Benedict had always thought of his past as a complete mystery, something he knew nothing about.

Now he understood something far more disturbing.

It hadn't been lost.

Someone had erased it.

He was standing by the window in his bedroom, a cup of coffee still untouched in his hand.

Below, gardeners trimmed hedges while maids crossed the courtyard carrying fresh flowers.

To anyone watching...

Ashcroft Manor looked peaceful.

But Benedict had begun to notice something.

People watched him.

Not openly.

Glances.

A servant turning away too quickly.

A person who appears to be polishing a car, but is actually sneaking a peek at something else.

Normally he would have dismissed it.

Today...

He couldn't.

If someone inside the manor was feeding information to the mastermind...

Anyone could be involved.

A gentle knock interrupted his thoughts.

"Come in."

Damian entered carrying two paper bags.

"I thought you skipped breakfast again."

Benedict smiled faintly.

"I did."

Damian placed the bags on the table.

"So I brought breakfast to you."

He unpacked warm meat pies, fruit, and coffee.

"I remembered what you like."

Benedict looked surprised.

"You remembered?"

Damian laughed.

"You've spent weeks remembering everyone else's preferences."

"I figured it was time someone remembered yours."

For a moment...

Benedict didn't know what to say.

He smiled.

"Thank you."

The moment felt natural.

Unforced.

The distance between them had quietly disappeared.

As they ate, Damian finally asked,

"Are you going to see the doctor today?"

"Yes."

"Do you think he'll recognize you?"

"I don't know."

Benedict glanced at the piece of paper Father Michael had handed him, noticing it was folded up.

"But I have to find out."

Damian hesitated.

"I still think someone should go with you."

Benedict shook his head.

"If the mastermind has people watching me..."

"The fewer who know my movements, the better."

Damian nodded reluctantly.

"Then promise me one thing."

"What?"

"If something feels wrong..."

"...call me."

Benedict smiled.

"I promise."

Across the city...

Inside the penthouse office...

The elderly mastermind stood before a large wall covered in photographs.

A new picture had been added.

It appeared to show Benedict leaving St. Gabriel Children's Home the night before.

The younger man entered.

"Our man inside the manor confirmed it."

"He'll visit Dr. Whitmore today."

The old man remained silent.

His fingers rested on the photograph.

"So..."

"The doctor survived longer than I expected."

The younger man asked,

"Should we eliminate him?"

The old man slowly shook his head.

"No."

"Dead witnesses attract attention."

He smiled faintly.

"But frightened witnesses..."

"...often destroy themselves."

He picked up his silver cane.

"Pay the doctor a visit."

"Remind him..."

"...what happened to people who couldn't keep secrets."

Late that morning...

Benedict drove toward Willow Creek Retirement Village.

The neighborhood around St. Gabriel Children's Home was pretty run-down, but this one was different - it was actually really quiet and peaceful.

Tree-lined roads stretched in every direction.

Children rode bicycles along the sidewalks.

Retired couples tended flower gardens.

It felt like a place where painful memories came to rest.

He parked outside a modest brick cottage.

A brass plaque beside the gate read:

Dr. Samuel Whitmore

Benedict took a slow breath before ringing the bell.

A few moments later...

The door opened.

An old man, with his white hair neatly combed, was standing in front of him.

His shoulders had become stooped with age, but his eyes still sparkled with a sharp alertness.

"Can I help you?"

Benedict offered a respectful smile.

"Dr. Whitmore?"

"Yes."

"My name is Benedict."

"I was hoping to ask you about St. Gabriel Children's Home."

The doctor's expression changed instantly.

Not confusion.

Recognition.

He stared at Benedict's face.

Longer than politeness required.

His lips parted slightly.

Then, almost inaudibly, he whispered,

"...Impossible."

Benedict's heartbeat quickened.

"You know me?"

The doctor didn't answer.

Instead...

He looked nervously beyond Benedict's shoulder.

Toward the quiet street.

As though expecting someone else to be there.

Then he stepped aside.

"Come inside."

His voice had become unsteady.

"We mustn't talk out here."

As Benedict crossed the threshold...

The two men didn't see the black car that was parked down the street, about half a block away from where they were standing.

Inside...

A camera lens slowly lowered.

Someone had just photographed them together.

The front door closed softly behind them.

Dr. Samuel Whitmore didn't speak immediately.

He got up and walked over to the window in the living room, then carefully closed the curtains.

Then he checked the back door.

He came back and signaled for Benedict to take a seat.

"I'm sorry," the doctor said quietly.

"Old habits."

Benedict studied him carefully.

"You seem frightened."

Dr. Whitmore gave a weary smile.

"When you've spent thirty years protecting a secret..."

"...you learn to be careful."

The words settled heavily between them.

Benedict leaned forward.

"Father Michael said you might be able to help me figure out my past."

The doctor's eyes rested on Benedict's face.

He just stared at him for a really long time.

Then he sighed.

"You have your mother's eyes."

Benedict froze.

"My... mother?"

The doctor nodded slowly.

I never thought I'd have to say that again; it's a phrase I hoped to never utter.

He got up from his seat and headed over to an old bookcase.

He reached behind a stack of medical books and pulled out a little wooden box.

The wood had darkened with age.

Its brass hinges were worn from countless openings.

I just couldn't bear to get rid of it, so I held on to it.

He set the box down on the table, right in the middle, so it was between them.

There was a bundle of old hospital records inside, tied up with a faded blue ribbon.

As soon as Benedict took a closer look, he realized that some of the pages were missing; they had been ripped out.

The doctor saw him looking.

"They came here years ago."

"They searched this house."

"They took almost everything."

"They thought they had succeeded."

He smiled faintly.

They had no idea that I had secretly stored some things in other places.

Benedict's pulse quickened.

"Who came here?"

The doctor's expression grew grave.

"I never learned his name."

"But he wasn't working alone."

"He warned me that if I ever spoke about the child..."

"...people would die."

Silence filled the room.

At last, Benedict asked,

"Was I abandoned?"

The question hung in the air.

Dr. Whitmore answered without hesitation.

"No."

"You were loved."

More than loved.

You were protected."

Benedict stared at him.

"Then why was I left at the orphanage?"

The doctor slowly lowered his eyes.

They did it because they thought it was the only way to save your life.

Benedict felt as though the floor had shifted beneath him.

Everything he had believed about himself...

It was beginning to crumble.

The doctor untied the blue ribbon.

Among the papers that survived, there was a medical admission form that had faded with time.

Across the top was written:

Male Child

Approximate Age: Two Years

Some parts of the page had been covered up with thick black marks.

The names were impossible to read.

Only one sentence had escaped the ink.

Child delivered personally.

Benedict looked up.

"Personally?"

Dr. Whitmore nodded.

"You didn't arrive with the police."

"You weren't abandoned on church steps."

"You weren't found wandering."

He paused.

"Someone carried you into my examination room."

Benedict's breathing slowed.

"Who?"

The old doctor's eyes filled with regret.

"I wish I knew."

"The man never gave his name."

He had his hat pulled down low, so it was hard to see his face.

"He refused to remove his gloves."

"But I'll never forget one thing."

"What?"

"He cried."

Benedict frowned.

"Cried?"

Dr. Whitmore nodded.

He wrapped his arms around you like he was scared that if he let go, he would shatter into a million pieces.

"When I asked him who you were..."

"...he only said,"

I'm begging you, just give him a little more time, so he can finally learn the truth and understand what's really going on.

The room fell silent.

A knock suddenly echoed at the front door.

Both men froze.

The doctor looked toward the hallway.

"I wasn't expecting anyone."

Another knock.

Slower this time.

Three measured taps.

Benedict stood.

"I'll see who it is."

He walked across the hallway and peeked through the little window next to the door.

No one.

Only an empty porch.

He opened the door cautiously.

The street was deserted.

A cool breeze stirred the trees.

He saw a little package sitting on the welcome mat.

Wrapped in plain brown paper.

No address.

No sender.

Benedict picked it up.

Inside...

It was an old pocket watch.

Its silver surface was scratched with age.

The moment Dr. Whitmore saw it...

The color drained from his face.

"No..."

he whispered.

"It can't be."

"You've seen this before?" Benedict asked.

The doctor nodded, his hands trembling.

"The man who brought you..."

"He carried this watch."

Benedict carefully turned it over.

Engraved on the back were the words:

"Time cannot bury the truth."

Before either man could speak—

A loud explosion shattered the afternoon.

The windows shook violently.

Glass rained across the living room.

Outside, thick black smoke rose into the sky.

Benedict rushed to the doorway.

Across the street...

A dark sedan that was parked just a minute ago was now on fire.

Neighbors screamed.

People ran in every direction.

The driver never emerged.

Dr. Whitmore stepped beside Benedict.

His face had become ashen.

"They're cleaning up."

Benedict's eyes hardened.

"No."

"They're sending us a message."

He glanced down at the old pocket watch he was holding.

The mastermind had just proven something chilling.

He wasn't merely watching.

He was always one step ahead.

And somewhere, hidden inside that battered old watch...

Was the next piece of Benedict's forgotten past.