Amelia didn't sleep.
She sat on the edge of the bed, the silver hairpin still clutched in her hand, and watched the slow fade of night into morning. The walls of the bedroom felt closer than they had before. The silence felt heavier.
Every few minutes, she looked at the door.
He didn't come back.
She didn't know if she was relieved or disappointed.
When the first light of dawn slipped through the curtains, Amelia stood up. Her legs were stiff. Her eyes were dry. She hadn't cried. She wasn't sure she knew how anymore.
She tucked the hairpin into the pocket of her dress and walked to the door.
_______
Ethan was in the kitchen.
He stood at the counter, his back to her, his hands braced against the edge of the marble. He was still wearing the same clothes from yesterday. His hair was disheveled. His shoulders were tense.
He hadn't slept either.
Amelia stopped in the doorway. She watched him for a long moment – the rise and fall of his back, the way his head hung low.
"Ethan."
He didn't turn.
"Ethan, look at me."
He turned.
His face was pale. Dark circles hung beneath his eyes. But it was his expression that made her breath catch – raw, exhausted, stripped of every wall he'd ever built.
"You're still here," he said.
"Where else would I go?"
"I don't know. Anywhere. Everywhere. Away from me."
Amelia walked into the kitchen. She stopped on the other side of the counter, close enough to touch him but not close enough to reach.
"I told you," she said. "I'm not running."
"Yet."
"Yet."
The word hung between them.
Ethan looked at her hands. At the pocket where she'd tucked the hairpin.
"You took it," he said.
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because I want to know what it means."
He closed his eyes. When he opened them, they appeared to have softened.
"It means I've been looking for someone my whole life," he said. "And I'm not sure I'll ever find her."
Amelia's heart tightened.
"The girl in the photograph."
"Yes."
"Who is she?"
Ethan was quiet for a long moment. He walked around the counter, slowly, until he was standing in front of her. Close enough that she could smell him – clean, woody, the same scent that had surrounded her the night he carried her inside.
"I don't know her name," he said. "I don't know where she's from. I don't know if she's alive or dead."
"Then how do you know she's real?"
"Because I remember her."
Amelia waited.
Ethan reached out. His fingers brushed her cheek – light, tentative, like he was touching something fragile.
"I was seven years old," he said. "My father took me to a party. I didn't know whose. I didn't know why. I just knew I was supposed to stand in the corner and be quiet."
Amelia's throat tightened.
"There was a girl," he continued. "She was younger than me. Four, maybe five. She had dark hair and a yellow dress and she kept looking at me like she wanted to say something."
"What did she say?"
"Nothing. She just walked up to me and held out her hand."
Amelia's breath caught.
The photograph. The girl reaching up.
"She had a hairpin in her hair," Ethan said. "A silver one. Shaped like a flower."
Amelia's hand moved to her pocket. The hairpin was still there, cold against her fingers.
"She gave it to you," Amelia whispered.
"No." Ethan shook his head. "She dropped it. Running. I don't know from what. I just remember picking it up and looking for her and never finding her again."
"That's it? That's the whole story?"
"That's the whole story."
Amelia stared at him.
She wanted to believe him. Wanted to see the sad, beautiful truth of a lonely boy holding onto a memory.
But something didn't fit.
"If that's all it was," she said slowly, "why is her photograph in a locked room? Why are there files on Rossi? Why does your family have a criminal record?"
Ethan's hand fell from her face.
"Amelia –"
"You said you'd show me the truth. You showed me fragments. Pieces. A story that doesn't make sense."
"It's all I have."
"Then it's not enough."
The words landed hard. She saw them hit him – the way his jaw tightened, the way his eyes darkened.
"I'm sorry," he said.
Tell me the truth. All of it. Not bits and pieces. Not stories from when you were seven. The real truth – about Rossi, about your family, about why my father sold me to you."
Ethan stepped back. His hands went to his hips. He looked at the floor, the ceiling, anywhere but her face.
"You want the truth?" he said.
"Yes."
"The truth is that I'm not a good man. I've done things – terrible things – that I can never take back. The truth is that my family destroyed yours long before you were born, and I've been trying to fix it ever since. The truth is that I married you to protect you, yes, but also because I'm selfish, and I couldn't stand the thought of anyone else keeping you safe."
Amelia's heart pounded.
"And the girl?" she asked. "The one in the yellow dress?"
Ethan finally looked at her.
"I think she's you."
The room went silent.
Amelia's breath stopped.
Me?
"No," she said.
"Yes."
"That's impossible. I don't remember you. I don't look quite the same like I do in my family album. I don't remember any party. I don't remember a fire –"
She stopped.
FIRE
She hadn't meant to say that. She didn't know where it came from.
Ethan's face went pale. "What did you just say?"
"Nothing. I –"
"You said fire."
Amelia's hands were shaking. "I don't know why. It just came out."
Ethan walked toward her. His eyes were wide, urgent, searching her face.
"What else?" he demanded. "What else do you remember?"
"Nothing! I don't remember anything!"
"You said fire, Amelia. No one told you about a fire. No one mentioned it. So how do you know?"
Amelia stepped back. Her back hit the counter. She couldn't breathe.
"I don't know," she whispered.
Ethan stopped. He stared at her for a long moment.
Then he stepped back.
"I'm sorry," he said again.
"Stop saying you're sorry."
"Then what do you want me to say?"
Amelia looked at him – at the man who had carried her inside, who had kissed her like she was the answer to a prayer, who had shown her a locked room full of ghosts.
"I want you to tell me the truth," she said. "Not soon. Now."
Ethan was quiet.
Then he shook his head.
"I can't."
"Ethan –"
"If I tell you everything, you'll leave. And I can't lose you. Not yet. Not like this."
He turned and walked out of the kitchen.
Amelia stood there, alone, her hand pressed against her chest, her heart racing.
Fire.
Why did she say fire?
She didn't remember any fire.
But her body did.
Her hands were shaking. Her skin was cold. Her lungs felt tight, like she was breathing smoke.
She didn't know why.
But she was going to find out.