Page 3

The old orphanage looks smaller than I remember.

I park across the street beneath the bare, reaching limbs of a winter-worn tree, engine ticking quietly as it cools. The building hasn’t changed. Same flaking paint, same tired shutters drawn against the cold. Ivy still curls along the side wall like it’s trying to hold the place upright. Time has worn everything thinner, but not away.

I cross the street slowly, envelope tucked inside my coat. I always bring it in person. It’s not much, just a modest donation I send each month, but I never trust mail to carry what this place means. It deserves a hand-delivered kindness.

The gate squeaks as I push it open.

The front steps groan under my weight, familiar beneath my boots. The bell above the door jingles when I step inside, and for a second, I swear I’m thirteen again—awkward, freckled, clinging to my books like armor.

Warmth hits me in waves. The radiator clicks steadily beneath the front windows, and the smell—old wood, lemon cleaner, and something sweet baking in the kitchen—wraps around me like a childhood blanket. Voices drift from down the hall, followed by the sudden burst of laughter. Children.

Always laughter here, even when there wasn’t much to laugh about.

“Dr. Emberly?” a familiar voice calls out.

I glance up as Marsha appears from around the corner, apron dusted in flour. Her hair’s a little grayer than last year, her smile just as quick. “You’re a day early!”

“Had a shift change,” I say, peeling off my gloves. “Figured I’d drop by before the chaos caught up.”

She pulls me in for a tight hug that smells like vanilla and cinnamon. “You’re too good to us.”

“I’m paying off a debt,” I murmur into her shoulder.

Marsha steps back and waves a hand. “Oh, nonsense. Come in, come in.”

I follow her down the hallway, past the playroom, where a handful of kids are sprawled across the floor with board games and puzzles. A boy with dark curls shrieks with laughter as two girls gang up on him with stuffed animals. The walls are covered in crayon-colored murals, bright and chaotic. I feel it stir inside me—a quiet ache that isn’t sadness exactly, just something deeper, shaped like memory.

I leave the envelope with Marsha at the front desk. She doesn’t look inside. Just presses her hand over mine in thanks, eyes warm. “You could’ve sent it.”

“I wanted to see the place.”

She nods like she understands. Maybe she does.

Before I can ask after some of the older kids, footsteps echo from the back hallway. They’re heavier than the usual staff tread, more deliberate. When I glance up, he’s already coming through the doorway.

William Barlow.

Still tall. Still neat in that rumpled, professorly way. Graying hair combed back, glasses perched low on his nose. His coat’s folded over one arm, and he carries a mug that’s probably gone cold.

“Elise,” he says, smiling like the sun has just come out.

My chest tightens in that old, inexplicable way. I return the smile without thinking.

“William.”

He opens his arms and I step into the hug. It’s brief, familiar. He smells like pine soap and old books. He always has.

“You look good,” he says as we pull apart. “Tired, but good.”

“I’ll take it.”

“Come,” he gestures with his mug. “Walk with me. I’ve just escaped a meeting with the board—they’re threatening to modernize again.”

I fall into step beside him as we move toward his office at the back of the building. The halls are quieter here, lined with old photographs in wooden frames—some crooked, all treasured. He unlocks the door with the same key he’s had for years, the one on the leather fob worn smooth with age.

The office hasn’t changed either.

Books stacked in precarious towers, framed newspaper clippings half hidden under papers, a small window that barely lets in any light. There’s a chipped teapot on the filing cabinet and an old clock ticking softly above the door.

“Sit,” William says, clearing space on the visitor’s chair with a sweep of his arm. “Don’t mind the mess. The chaos is part of the charm.”

I smile and sit, folding my hands in my lap.

He settles behind his desk with a quiet sigh and leans back in his chair, eyes on me like he’s reading more than just my posture.

“You don’t come often,” he says gently. “When you do, it’s usually on days you need grounding.”

He’s not wrong.

“I had a rough shift,” I admit, then shake my head. “No, that’s not it. Just… needed to be somewhere that doesn’t ask anything of me.”

William nods, patient and unhurried. “Here you are.”

“Here I am.”

We sit like that for a while, not speaking. The silence is comfortable, layered with history. I’d spent so many hours in this room growing up—being scolded, being encouraged, being seen.

He finally speaks. “You’ve done well, Elise.”

“I’m trying.”

“You’re succeeding.”

There’s something weighted in the way he says it. Like he knows more than he lets on. He always has.

I glance at the mug on his desk. “Still drink that same terrible tea?”

“Every day,” he says, grinning. “Ritual matters.”

“Ritual is how we survive,” I say, almost to myself.

He watches me with those kind eyes, the ones that always made me feel like I mattered, even when I was just a scared kid afraid to hope.

“You’re thinking of something,” he says softly.

I pause. Then nod. “I don’t know what, but I feel like something’s coming. Something I can’t name.”

William leans back in his chair, fingers tapping thoughtfully against the side of his mug. His eyes haven’t left me, but there’s no weight behind them—just that calm steadiness he’s always carried. I think that’s part of why I still come here. Why this office, this chair, this man—make everything else quiet for a little while.

“So,” he begins with a gentle smile, “tell me about your life.”

I let out a soft exhale, shifting in my seat. “There’s not much to tell that isn’t about work. Long shifts, endless rotations, not enough sleep.”

He chuckles. “Sounds like you’re doing it right.”

I tilt my head, lips quirking. “That’s one way to look at it.”

He sips from the mug, grimaces a little, then sets it aside. “And med school, how’s that treating you?”

I can’t help it—a laugh bubbles up before I can stop it. “William, I’m already a doctor.”

The look he gives me is pure delight, tinged with mock embarrassment. “Ah, yes. Of course you are. How time flies.” He shakes his head, eyes glinting. “I still see that little girl who used to climb trees and stitch up her own scrapes with the sewing kit she stole from Marsha’s office.”

I groan, laughing under my breath. “You still remember that?”

“You nearly passed out when you saw the blood, but refused to let anyone else touch it. Said, ‘If I’m going to be a doctor, I better start acting like one.’” His smile softens into something else. “You were always relentless.”

I look down, letting the warmth of his words settle somewhere deep inside. There aren’t many people in my life who remember me before I wore the white coat. Before the name badge. Before the late nights and blood and bruises and broken people.

With William, it’s different. He sees every version of me all at once—the child, the teen, the woman I’ve become—and he makes space for all of them.

“Sometimes I don’t feel like her anymore,” I admit quietly.

“Who?”

“That little girl. The one who used to believe she could fix things.”

His expression gentles even further, and he leans forward slightly, arms folded over the desk. “You didn’t stop being her, Elise. You just forgot where she lives.”

I look up at him, and for a moment, I don’t say anything. I don’t have to.

The room quiets around us, filled with the low tick of the clock above the door, the distant sound of children’s laughter echoing from the far end of the building.

Then William’s phone buzzes against the wood.

His gaze flicks down to the screen, and I see it before he picks it up—the slight stiffening of his shoulders, the way the corner of his mouth tightens ever so slightly. It’s subtle, but not invisible.

“Excuse me,” he says softly, rising from his chair. “Just a minute.”

He steps out of the office, phone to his ear before he even closes the door.

Just like that, the air changes.

I sit still, suddenly aware of the silence he leaves behind. It isn’t the same quiet from before. This one feels… held. Like something’s waiting. My fingers tighten slightly on the armrest. I glance around the office again—at the stacks of paperwork, the books on social welfare, the old photograph of a much younger William standing in front of the orphanage with half a dozen children. One of them is me.

He never says who funds this place. Never talks about how the lights stay on, or why certain things—better mattresses, school laptops, winter coats—seem to appear right before they’re needed. I always figured there were donors. Rich ones. The silent kind who want nothing to do with the kids themselves.

Still. That phone call…

I glance toward the door. I can’t hear much, just the murmur of William’s voice through the hallway. The tone—something in it feels different. Not the usual kindness or ease. It’s clipped. Low. Controlled.

My stomach tightens.

I shouldn’t read into it. He’s the chairman of a struggling nonprofit. Of course he gets calls. Of course they’re stressful.

When he returns, just a few minutes later, there’s a slight flush to his skin. He adjusts the cuff of his sleeve before stepping back inside.

“Apologies,” he says, smiling again—but it’s a touch too smooth now. “Just logistics.”

I nod, trying not to frown. “Everything alright?”

“Of course.” He waves a hand, returning to his seat. “Where were we?”

The ease is gone. In its place, something else settles—a quiet, invisible thread running beneath the conversation. I see it in the way his fingers tap now, slower, more deliberate. The way his eyes flick to the clock more often than before.

Whatever that call was, it wasn’t nothing.

William tries to carry on like nothing happened, but the thread of unease stays wound tight beneath his voice. He asks about the hospital next, whether I’ve had any memorable cases, if the staff treats me well. I give him half answers, the kind that keep conversation going without revealing too much. My thoughts keep drifting back to that call—what I heard in his voice, and more importantly, what I didn’t.

He smiles at something I say, then sobers again. “Your apartment? Still in the same place?”

I nod. “Fourth floor. Radiator still makes that awful groaning noise at night.”

“Ah, charming urban ambiance.”

“Something like that.”

He shifts in his chair, rubbing at the side of his neck. “You’re still working nights?”

“Most of the time. I’ve got another shift tonight.” I glance at the old clock above the filing cabinet. “Should probably head back soon, try to sleep for a couple hours.”

He frowns, but it’s not disapproval. “I worry about you, Elise.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You always worry.”

“True.” He pauses. “There’s something in your eyes I haven’t seen before. You’re more… guarded. Like you’re bracing for something.”

That gives me pause. I look down, my thumb tracing the inside seam of my coat. “You’re not wrong.”

“You could stay here for a while,” he says quietly. “If the city gets too loud. The old guest room’s still got your books on the shelf.”

The offer makes my chest tighten. I almost say yes. Almost. I’ve built a life outside these walls. A life I have to keep facing, even when it bruises me.

“I appreciate that,” I say instead, standing. “Really, but I’ll be okay.”

He rises with me. “You’re stronger than anyone I know.”

“Don’t let the kids hear that. They’ll never listen to me again.”

William chuckles and follows me to the door. “Be careful tonight.”

“I always am.”

His eyes soften. “No, you’re always brave. That’s not the same thing.”

We linger for a moment longer by the office threshold. His hand rests briefly on my shoulder—steadying, grounding. The way it used to when I was too angry, too scared, too lost to speak.

“I’m proud of you, Elise,” he says.

“I know,” I whisper.

I do, but hearing it still matters.

I step into the hallway, the sounds of the orphanage rising around me again—footsteps, laughter, the echo of someone calling out for snack time. Life carrying on.

As I leave the building, I glance back once at the front steps. William’s silhouette stands framed in the office window, watching me go.

He lifts a hand. I raise mine in return.

***

The sun is already sinking behind the rooftops by the time I step out of my apartment. The street is bathed in that strange, in-between light—dusky gold smeared over cracked pavement and rusted balconies, the sky bruising purple at the edges. I clutch my thermos tighter, still half full from earlier, and let the door swing shut behind me.

Tonight feels heavier than usual. The air presses low, damp with that vague, metallic scent that comes right before rain. I tug my scarf higher around my neck and start walking, boots echoing quietly along the sidewalk. The hospital isn’t far—eight blocks exactly. I’ve walked it more times than I can count.

Normally, I find comfort in the rhythm. The steady route. The quiet before stepping into chaos. But tonight, something itches under my skin. Not fear. Not exactly. Just a flicker. Like I’ve forgotten something important. Like I’m walking toward a door I won’t be the same after crossing.

I shake it off.

The last few hours at the orphanage keep tugging at my thoughts. William’s call. The look in his eyes when he came back into the room. It wasn’t just a donor call. It wasn’t a scheduling mishap. Something was wrong.

And he didn’t tell me.

It’s not your business anymore, I remind myself. You’re not a kid there. You’re not his responsibility—and he’s not yours.

Still.

I pass the corner bodega. The clerk nods through the window as he sweeps up a shattered jar of pickles. A bus hisses past, headlights glaring before it turns off onto a side street. I cross at the light, the hospital now in view across the lot—its windows lit like a grid of tired eyes, yellow and flickering, each one hiding a story I’ll be pulled into soon enough.

I check my phone as I walk, scanning for new messages.

Nothing. Just Maya’s text from earlier.

Don’t forget snacks tomorrow, and the good wine.

I smile faintly and type a quick reply— Too late. Long live the snack queen —but I don’t hit send. The screen’s still lit when I slip the phone back into my coat pocket.

As I enter the staff lot, the sharp scent of exhaust and damp concrete hits me. The lamplight overhead flickers once. Then again. I make a note to mention it to security. Another thing no one will fix unless it breaks completely.

I’m mid-scroll, checking the hospital’s internal message board, when my shoulder twinges.

I pause for half a second. Nothing. Just tension. I roll it out, rub the back of my neck.

The cold feels deeper now. More still. Like the world is holding its breath.

You’re imagining things, I tell myself, stepping between rows of parked cars, the ER entrance just ahead.

The parking lot is quiet when I arrive at work, half lit by the flickering overheads that buzz and sputter every few seconds. Long shadows stretch across the pavement from the tall lamp posts, broken only by the occasional breeze that kicks at fallen leaves. I pull my coat tighter around me as I walk, my fingers numb from the chill, shoulders aching from sleep that never quite came. The kind that leaves you heavy, fogged, not rested.

I check the time again—6:48 p.m. The shift won’t start for another twelve minutes, but I prefer to get in early. I always do. I like the quiet before the chaos. Like having the ER to myself, even if just for a few minutes. Like standing at the nurses’ station with coffee no one else has touched yet.

I scroll through my phone as I walk—half reading, half just letting my eyes skim headlines and texts I haven’t responded to. Nothing important. Nothing urgent.

Then it happens. A sharp sting—like a wasp strike, fast and clean—jolts into the back of my neck.

I freeze.

My fingers go limp, the phone slipping from my hand and clattering onto the pavement. For a second, I think I’ve pulled a nerve, or maybe pinched something—but then the ground tilts, slow and wrong, like the air just changed gravity.

My vision doubles. Triples.

Panic stabs through me as I try to turn around, legs already unsteady. I manage half a step before my knees buckle.

Concrete rushes up. My hands don’t catch me.

I hit the ground hard, my cheek scraping rough pavement. The sting blooms into a cold numbness that spreads down my spine, then out to my fingertips. My mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Not a scream. Not a word. Just a rasp of breath I can barely feel.

My heart slams against my ribs, and I try again to move, to turn, to crawl—but my limbs are sluggish, disobedient.

I hear footsteps. Close. Slow.

Something shifts in the corner of my vision—a shape, tall and dark, stepping into the weak spill of light from the lamp overhead. A figure. No features. Just blackness moving against blackness, like it doesn’t need to be seen.

My pulse spikes. I try to scream again.

Nothing.

The figure kneels beside me. I smell cologne—faint, expensive. Something sharp beneath it. A hand brushes hair from my face with surprising gentleness, and I want to flinch, to bite, to run. But my body won’t move.

I hear a low voice, but the words are waterlogged, drowned under the rush of my own blood in my ears. The figure presses something against my arm—fabric? Gloves? I can’t tell.

Then—

Darkness.

It doesn’t fall like a curtain. It rolls in like fog. Heavy, creeping, absolute.

I go under.