Chapter 7: The echoing night

Chapter 7: The echoing night
The night had draped itself over the villa like a smooth black cloth. The corridor lights were out, only a thin ribbon of glow from the living room spilling across the hallway — my lone appointment with destiny. My parents slept soundly, their steady breathing through the walls a foolish reassurance, deepening the silence of every door. I stood at my room’s threshold, fingers clutching the bed’s cold edge, my heart thrashing like a trapped bird. Past midnight, the clock ticked — each minute stretching like the gap between two worlds.

My feet touched the floor — the whisper of nightclothes brushing wood — and I crept forward. Dim light from the kitchen traced familiar outlines: the wooden table, the fake flower vase, the shadow of the maid bent over sweeping. The scent of dish soap mingled with the ghost of stale coffee. I forced every sound down, trying to steady my breathing, but my lungs still felt as though they would burst.

A misstep — the faint echo of a shoe on the floor. The maid lifted her head, eyes tracing the shadow by the door. I crouched behind the armchair, heart slamming, throat dry. After a moment, she turned back, perhaps used to the house’s midnight murmurs. I lay still, hearing even the pulse of my own blood; each second dragging me closer to the front door.

When the broom’s rhythm resumed, I seized my chance. Fingers numb, I slipped from hiding, moving like a thief in my own home. The door opened to a gust of cold; night air pressed against my face. A black car waited under the trees, its shape swallowed in shadow, edges glinting with a stray reflection. I stepped out, each footfall cutting the air, then slid into the passenger seat — tonight, placing all my trust in one person.

Kristine leaned over to unlock the door, brushing aside a strand of loose hair, her eyes glinting in the dark. I was still trembling; my breath fogged the window in tiny clouds. She smiled, trying to mask her worry. “Elysa, you called me out at this hour… what’s wrong?” The way she spoke, the way her eyes rested on me — a mixture of curiosity and a trace of duty — made me feel safe, as if I had been handed a life buoy in the middle of a storm.

“Just… drive somewhere quiet first,” I said, my voice catching. I didn’t want to explain on the road, nor did I want anyone to see. Kristine nodded, buckled in, and the car rolled away, the engine groaning like a weary beast waking in the night.

The road to the outskirts was longer than I thought. Streetlights grew sparse, silence thickened, and only the wheels and our breathing filled the void. Kristine glanced at me now and then, the unspoken question in her eyes growing larger. I tried to console myself with tiny promises: just two words, then I’d go back. But inside, shadows surged — the fear of being discovered, the dread of what my parents would feel if they knew — and above all, Kael. Kael, whose smile I once believed was home, now blurred and suspect.

The car stopped in a desolate place, where only night birds cried to each other. Kristine killed the engine, sat still, then turned to me. The cabin light flicked on, pouring a small circle of glow across her face. “Elysa, you’ve changed so much lately. Why do you look so… worn out?” she asked, unable to hide her concern.

Her words cut like a knife across the scar I had tried to hide. I buried my face in my hands, letting the fragile dam break. Not dramatic — only exhaustion, a sluggish wave after the storm. My voice spilled out in broken sobs: “I… only have two months left to live.”

Kristine froze. I saw her slowly draw her hand back, eyes widening in disbelief. “What are you saying? Don’t joke…” She clung to composure that was already unraveling. I shook my head, my voice thin as paper: “Stomach cancer — terminal stage. The doctor said… two months.” With each word, a piece of me fell away.

Without thinking, Kristine pulled me into her arms. In her embrace, I realized I still had an anchor: warmth, the familiar scent of her shampoo, the steady rhythm of her breathing. “I’m here,” she whispered, trying to keep her voice steady, “I won’t leave you.” Those words were a lifeline.

She let go, her eyes shifting, thoughts flickering: my family, Kael. “Do they know?” Kristine asked. I shook my head. Then I told her of my attempt at suicide days ago, of the charade of “memory loss” I had staged to cover the truth; and of this morning, when Kael came by, and I had pretended to sleep — only to hear him whisper in another voice from the hallway: “She really has lost her memory. Start the plan.” That sentence had dropped into me like a block of ice.

Kristine leaned closer, grasping my hand tighter. “You think Kael is hiding something?” she asked. I clenched her hand, feeling her bones tremble beneath my fingers. “I don’t know. But I can’t leave without knowing the truth. I can’t go with all these question marks hanging over me.” The words came out frail, yet in my eyes, fire had sparked — not the fire of hope for a cure, but the hunger to know. To know who the man I had loved for seven years truly was.

Kristine sighed, then nodded, decision etching itself onto her face. “Alright. I’ll help you. I’ll trace every clue.” She gripped my shoulders, her embrace carrying both promise and burden. Our tears fell together, cold and salty, like a farewell to everything that once felt safe.

By the time the clock struck past three, Kristine brought me back. The villa stood silent, as if nothing had been disturbed. I returned to my room, everything untouched — the desk in the corner, the mural on the wall, the cushions steeped in the scent of old clothes. On the bed, I sat down, opened the drawer, and pulled out a photograph — one from the early days of our love, with naïve smiles and impossible promises. For a moment, the picture itself seemed like a challenge: was this man truly worth the last of my days spent unraveling thread by thread of his truth?

I laid the photo in my lap, staring at it in silence. My heart still beat — not from fear of death, but from the terror of leaving while everything remained tangled. I told myself: I will spend these remaining months peeling everything open — not to hate, but to know. To lay every question on the table, to let no secret drag me from this world without an answer.

Outside, the streetlights stood mute; inside, one person decided not to stay silent anymore. I clutched the photo in my hand, let the tears dry on their own, and for the first time in days, I heard my own voice — small, but resolute.