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Amelia POVI arrive at the gallery just as the sun begins to soften, light spilling through tall glass panels and washing the white walls in gold. The place hums with quiet elegance—low voices, clinking glasses, slow footsteps that echo like restrained thoughts. I blend in easily, black dress, neutral smile, hair pinned back in a way that suggests intention rather than effort. No one looks twice at me, and that is exactly how I want it.Art has always unsettled me. Too honest. Too revealing. Every piece here feels like a confession left out in the open. I move from painting to painting, pretending to read plaques while my attention stretches outward, searching. I feel him before I see him, the same way you feel a shift in air when a door opens behind you.Maxwell stands near a large abstract piece, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed but alert. He looks thinner than the last time I saw him, sharper around the edges, like a man who has learned how to disappear without leaving a trace
Amelia POVI have learned to walk like I do not hear footsteps that echo half a beat too late, to smile at strangers even when their eyes linger as if they are searching for something they misplaced years ago. Los Angeles sunlight does not hide shadows; it sharpens them. I feel them stretch behind me every time I leave the house with Ethan, every time I take the boy to school, every time I stand at the market pretending to compare oranges while my skin prickles with awareness.I know I am being followed.Not in the obvious way people imagine—no dark coats or careless tails—but in the patient way of people who know what they are doing. Cars that reappear on different streets. Faces that look away a second too slow. Phones lifted, lowered. I pretend not to notice because whoever they are, they want to see what I do when I think I am alone.So I give them nothing.Still, something else has been gnawing at me, something older than fear. People call me Amelia.Not everyone. Just enough for
Margaret POVI stared at my daughter like I was seeing her for the first time.Lisa stood before me, calm despite the storm she had just unleashed, her posture straight, her eyes sharp with a resolve that did not come from impulse but from instinct. Pride—pure, unfiltered pride—swelled in my chest, cutting through the fear clawing at my ribs.“You did well,” I said slowly, deliberately. “Very well.”Her jaw tightened. “I didn’t do it for praise, Mother.”“I know,” I replied. “That’s why it matters.”Five years.Five long, infuriating years we had mourned Amelia like a ghost, buried her like a mistake, erased her like a liability. We burned evidence, rewrote timelines, silenced whispers. I watched flames eat through what remained of her life and believed—no, accepted—that she was gone.And now she was alive.Not just alive.Thriving.Living behind guarded gates. Holding a child’s hand. Smiling.I closed my eyes briefly, steadying myself. “Tell me everything again,” I said. “Every detai
Lisa POVI noticed it before anyone said a word.The way my mother’s lips pressed into a thin, unforgiving line whenever Amelia’s name surfaced. The dark crescents beneath her eyes that no amount of expensive concealer could hide. The restless pacing, the sharp phone calls made behind closed doors, the files spread across tables like evidence from a crime scene that refused to solve itself.Margaret did not chase ghosts.Yet here she was—haunted.For weeks, the house had been wrapped in a strange tension, like the air before a storm. Staff whispered. Phones rang endlessly. Security rotated shifts at odd hours. And my mother—once the embodiment of control—looked unmoored, driven by something that bordered on obsession.“Amelia doesn’t exist,” she muttered one morning, staring at her tablet as if willing it to contradict her.I paused at the doorway. “You keep saying that,” I said carefully. “But you also keep looking.”Her gaze snapped to mine, sharp and unreadable. “Because I know wha
Margaret POV If Amelia existed, she hid herself well. Too well. For three days straight, I chased her shadow across the city like a woman possessed. I retraced every step from the supermarket, every possible route she could have taken after disappearing into the crowd. I sent people. Quiet people. Expensive people. The kind who didn’t ask questions, only delivered results. They delivered nothing. No address. No phone records. No social media trail. No employment history. No medical files. No government footprint that matched her face. It was as if Amelia had never lived beyond the age she supposedly died. Or as if someone had carefully scraped her out of the world. By the fourth morning, doubt began to creep in—thin and poisonous. What if I was losing my mind? I stood in my bedroom staring at my reflection, searching my own eyes for madness. Lack of sleep had carved shadows beneath them, my hair pulled back too tightly, my hands trembling as I gripped the edge of the dre
Margaret POVI hadn’t slept.The image of her—Amelia—standing in the dairy aisle with a carton of milk in her hand refused to loosen its grip on my mind. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her face again. Older. Sharper. Alive.Impossible.Dead people did not buy groceries on a Tuesday afternoon.Yet my hands still trembled on the steering wheel as I pulled into the supermarket parking lot the next morning. I told myself this was ridiculous. That grief did strange things to memory. That the mind, when left too long with unanswered questions, invented ghosts to haunt itself.But fear does not come from imagination alone.Fear comes from recognition.I adjusted my scarf, forcing my spine straight as I stepped out of the car. The automatic doors slid open with the same hollow whoosh as yesterday, and the sound made my stomach twist. Everything looked the same—the same bright lights, the same displays, the same mundane normalcy that mocked the chaos inside me.I went straight to the custo







