Two hours after burying my daughter, I found myself standing outside my doctor’s office, the air a little too cold for the early afternoon.
My hands trembled, not from the chill, but from the weight of his words that echoed in my mind: ‘Come alone and tell no one.’
The funeral was still fresh, the scent of lilies and damp earth clinging to my clothes.
I had barely returned home when the phone rang, pulling me from my grief with an urgency that could not be ignored.
I hesitated at the door, the world feeling suddenly unfamiliar.
My fingers hovered over the handle, my breath catching in my throat.
The waiting room was empty, too quiet, as if it held its breath in anticipation of my arrival.
I stepped inside, the click of the door closing behind me louder than expected.
The receptionist, a woman I had seen countless times before, gave me a nod, her eyes filled with a sympathy that seemed too heavy for her small frame.
I couldn’t muster a smile in return, my lips refusing to form the shape.
Instead, I offered a slight nod, hoping it conveyed the gratitude I couldn’t quite voice.
I was led to an office, the path familiar yet distant, each step echoing with a dull thud against the sterile floor.
My heart pounded in my chest, a steady drumbeat of fear and curiosity.
The door opened and I entered, my gaze sweeping the room until it landed on the figure seated in the chair across from the desk.
Familiar yet entirely unexpected, they sat there, a presence that didn’t belong in this moment.
My hands trembled uncontrollably at the sight, my mind racing to comprehend the impossible.
I felt the world tilt slightly, as if reality had shifted and left me grasping for balance.
“Hello, Eleanor,” they said, their voice both a comfort and a threat.
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