The evening sky hung heavy with gray clouds as Shopia Joy stood before Eliana’s desk, her eyes narrowed at the drawer that had once been locked—now left slightly ajar. Inside, tucked beneath a stack of light novels and sketchbooks, she found a sheet of paper, roughly folded.

She reached for it slowly, unfolding each crease with care, her eyes darkening as she read the words written in a fragile but pressured hand.

Eliana’s handwriting.

> “Why does her face keep changing when I ask about Mother Olivia?”

“Why do I feel empty every time I drink that milk?”

“Why can’t I remember her voice, even though her face is so...