Even in sleep, his face was creased with pain.
A photograph sat on the mantel above him—a younger Arthur with a laughing woman and a little girl in a yellow dress.
Maya had seen it before and always averted her eyes out of respect.
But tonight, it hit her differently.
She finished the library, turned off the main light, and was about to slip out when a draft brushed her neck.
The evening had turned cool, and a window had been left ajar across the room.
She hesitated.
The rules said never to linger, never to touch anything near him.
But the man was shivering.
She could see the fine tremor in his shoulders beneath the thin suit jacket.
Maya’s heart cracked a little.
She walked to the armoire where Mrs. Gordon kept extra linens and took out a soft, cream-colored throw blanket.
As quietly as she could, she approached the couch.
Arthur’s breathing was deep, steady—convincingly so.
But Maya had spent two years watching her grandmother’s breathing at night, learning to read the subtle shifts between true sleep and the moments when pain kept her half-aware.
And in that instant, she knew.
He wasn’t asleep.
He was testing her, waiting to see if she would snoop or steal or let her curiosity betray her.
Anger flared in her chest—a hot, indignant pulse—but it died just as fast when she looked at the photo again.
The little girl had his eyes.
And the woman’s smile was the kind that made you believe in forever.
Maya didn’t know the details, but she understood enough.
This man was trapped inside a memory, and no one had dared to reach him.
