Page 56 of Bound By Crimson

Chapter Fifty-Six

The Woman in the Photograph

The click of the attic door still echoed in her mind.

Lyric stood still, letting her eyes adjust to the amber glow. Dust softened the edges of everything, but something about the space felt alert—undisturbed, but not forgotten.

Moving forward, one hand beneath her belly, Lyric scanned the room.

The air was dense, quiet, watchful—and she welcomed it.

Lyric wasn’t sure what she hoped to find—just something. Something she could show Kai. Something that might finally make him listen—make him see his mother for who she truly was. Cruel. Controlling. Unhinged.

And maybe he would love her again, like he did before. And finally take her away from this place.

The first thing she saw was a small baby shoe—pale pink, frilled, delicate. It sat atop a cedar chest like a memory that had been waiting for her.

Reaching for it with careful hands, she found a matching one sitting beside it. Lyric then opened the chest.

Inside were baby clothes. Dresses, mostly. Faded pinks, creams, and pale blues. Some had intricate lace collars, others, tiny, embroidered music notes .

Music notes .

There were tiny bonnets. Booties. Ribbons tied into bows. All unmistakably meant for a baby girl.

Lyric knelt, resting her weight on her heels, and let her fingers graze the soft fabric. The clothes smelled faintly of lavender, preserved despite the years.

One pale pink pillow caught her eye—delicate and small, trimmed with lace.

A quiet gasp slipped out.

It was the same embroidery. The same fabric. The same hand-stitched music notes.

Just like the blanket she found tucked inside the cardboard box in her parents’ closet—the box that held her adoption papers. And the note.

Her name is Lyric. Please take care of her.

Her fingers trembled as she picked it up.

How?

It wasn’t store-bought. It was handmade.

So how did the matching piece end up here—locked in an attic she was never meant to find?

A cold ache bloomed in her chest. Not grief. Not fear. Something deeper.

Lyric stared at it, heart thudding, her mind chasing answers that didn’t exist—trying to make sense of the impossible.

The pillow was proof of something—she just didn’t know what.

But she couldn’t stop here. Not yet.

She rose slowly, dusting her hands off on her dress, and turned toward the rest of the room.

It wasn’t just a storage space—it had been someone’s sanctuary once. There was a vanity in the far corner. The design was familiar—carved rose vines and twisted legs. The wood matched her own bedframe exactly.

She stepped closer, ran her hand along the edge. A dust-coated silver brush and comb sat beside perfume bottles—some crystal, some porcelain. Each looked expensive. Cherished.

So why were they up here?

Lyric opened one of the vanity drawers. Inside were delicate gloves, a brooch, dried flowers pressed in a book. She reached deeper and found a leather-bound journal wrapped in a yellowed silk ribbon.

She untied it, hands trembling slightly.

The first page had a name written in faded ink:

Property of Eden Thornwick.

Her brow furrowed. Eden?

She flipped through the pages. Most were filled with flowing script—thoughts, sketches of birds, pressed leaves. She didn’t recognize the handwriting. But it felt… intimate.

Tucked into the back was a thin slip of paper.

A birth certificate.

Edwina Thornwick. Date of birth, weight, time—all filled out. But no father listed.

Lyric stared at the name.

Edwina.

Edwin. Editha.

Of course.

But why had she never heard of her?

She looked around the attic again, a cold unease settling in her chest.

“Who are you, Eden?” she whispered. “And who is Edwina?”

Something caught her eye then, half-hidden beneath a collapsed lace parasol.

A picture frame. Facedown.

She hesitated—just for a moment—then walked toward it, careful not to disturb the brittle floorboards.

The frame was dusty and cold in her hands.

She didn’t flip it yet.

Instead, she stared at the back, heart hammering, a pulse roaring in her ears.

Finally, she turned it over.

A young woman stood barefoot in front of rose bushes, one hand resting protectively over her rounded stomach. She was visibly pregnant—the curve unmistakable even in the faded photograph.

At her side stood a boy—about ten—his shoulder slightly tucked behind her arm, like he wasn’t sure if he should be seen.

His hands were folded in front of him, posture stiff, as if he’d been told exactly how to stand but was still doing it wrong.

His eyes weren’t on the camera—they were fixed just beyond it, wary and uncertain, like he was bracing for correction.

The only softness in the frame was the way he leaned ever so slightly toward the woman beside him, like she was the only safe place in the shot.

But it was the woman that rooted Lyric in place.

It wasn’t just a resemblance—it was her.

Same eyes. Same mouth. Same stubborn tilt of her chin.

A strangled sound escaped Lyric’s throat.

This woman is my twin.

She staggered back a step, clutching the frame to her chest as if it could steady her.

Panic surged, colliding with confusion in a dizzying, stomach-clenching wave.

She flipped the frame over, hands trembling.

In faded handwriting on the back:

Eden, 21 — Malachai, 10

Lyric stared at the names, her mind racing.

Eden.

Malachai.

And Eden had been pregnant—was it with Edwina?

Her thoughts spun.

Were Eden and Malachai mother and son?

Or something else?

Nothing made sense.

Where had Eden gone? What had happened to Edwina?

Why had no one ever told her any of this?

The attic seemed to close in around her, pressing against her chest, squeezing the air from her lungs.

She clutched the frame tighter, feeling its edges dig into her palms.

She didn’t have answers.

But she had something now.

And she wasn’t letting go.