That night, Annette didn’t go back to her room right away.
She stayed on the balcony long after Isaac had walked past her, long after his footsteps faded into the quiet of the house. The city stretched out below, glowing in scattered lights, alive in a way she still couldn’t connect to.
Everything felt distant.
Like she was watching someone else’s life unfold.
A promise.
His words wouldn’t leave her alone.
Not just what he said—but how he said it.
Carefully.
Like something fragile sat behind it.
The next morning, she woke up earlier than usual.
Not out of habit.
But because something inside her refused to stay still.
The house was quiet, as always.
Too quiet.
She stepped into the hallway, her bare feet soft against the cold floor, and for the first time since arriving, she didn’t turn back.
She walked.
Slowly.
Curiously.
The house was bigger than she had realized.
Corridors that led to rooms she hadn’t seen.
Doors that stayed closed.
Spaces that felt… untouched.
Until she reached one that wasn’t.
The door at the end of the hallway was slightly open.
Annette hesitated.
Her hand hovered near the frame.
She didn’t know why her heart started racing.
But it did.
She pushed the door gently.
Inside, the room was different.
Not like the rest of the house.
There was no polished stillness.
No emptiness.
This room… had life.
A desk covered in papers.
Old books stacked unevenly.
A wooden chair pushed back like someone had left in a hurry.
And on the wall—
Photographs.
Annette stepped closer without thinking.
Her eyes moved slowly across the images.
Some were faded.
Some newer.
All carefully placed.
Families.
Children.
Villages.
And then—
She froze.
One photograph sat slightly apart from the others.
Not framed.
Just… placed.
Her breath caught.
It was her village.
The old road.
The market.
The tree where children gathered after school.
Her fingers trembled as she reached for it.
Why would he have this?
Her eyes scanned the room again.
Faster this time.
More urgently.
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