Six days had passed.
Soren sat curled on the couch, her legs tucked beneath her, watching the old television that barely worked anymore. The screen glowed with dull colors washed in gray, as if even light itself had grown tired of existing.
The news anchor spoke in a formal, steady voice.
“A horrifying crime shakes the city of Rochester… A young man has been found murdered in a brutal manner inside his home…”
A photograph appeared on the screen.
A man in his late twenties.
A calm smile.
Dark eyes that seemed gentle.
A name appeared beneath the image:
Daniel Edward Morgan
Age: 29.
Soren felt a tight ache in her chest.
“Poor man…”
she whispered softly, holding her mug of hot chocolate tea with both hands, letting the warmth seep into her fingers.
The anchor continued.
“The victim was discovered inside his apartment on Tuesday evening. Preliminary reports indicate that he was subjected to severe torture prior to his death. Marks of restraint were found on his wrists, along with multiple lacerations and widespread bruising across the body. Investigators also reported that the victim’s internal organs had been removed and hung throughout different areas of the residence. No items appear to have been stolen from the home, leaving the motive unclear.”
Images from the crime scene flashed across the screen.
Police tape stretching across a dim hallway.
A broken apartment door splintered inward.
Flashing red and blue lights staining the walls.
“The investigation remains ongoing, and authorities have yet to announce any suspects.”
Soren sighed quietly.
“I just… don’t understand how someone could do something like that to another human being.”
She took a slow sip from her mug, feeling a strange heaviness settle somewhere deep inside her chest.
It had been almost a week since she arrived in this town.
She had begun to adjust… at least a little.
She had walked through nearly every street.
The town was very small.
Yet strangely, it had no clear name posted anywhere.
No welcoming sign.
No maps.
Nothing official.
She had asked Lucian about it once.
He had smiled and replied,
“Some places prefer not to introduce themselves.”
She had assumed he was joking.
And even now…
she had barely met anyone.
No neighbors.
No children playing.
No sounds of ordinary life.
Just Lucian.
He was always nearby.
He accompanied her on walks, showed her the streets, guided her toward the few open places in town.
He reassured her whenever she felt uneasy.
Gentle.
Calm.
Always present.
—
Knock.
Soren flinched slightly.
She set her mug on the table and stood.
When she opened the door, Lucian was leaning casually against the frame, one shoulder resting against it, a soft smile on his face.
“Good evening.”
“Almost good morning,” she replied with a faint smile.
His gaze drifted briefly toward the television behind her.
Then back to her.
“Watching the news?”
“Yes… a horrible crime. A man named Daniel Morgan…”
She stopped speaking.
Lucian was staring at her with an oddly calm expression.
“Do you know him?” she asked.
He smiled.
“No.”
Then he pulled something from behind his back.
A folded piece of paper.
Her eyes widened with sudden excitement.
“A job?!”
He laughed lightly.
“Well… not exactly the psychiatric clinic you were hoping for.”
She grabbed the paper quickly.
“That’s okay! Anything is better than nothing.”
He spoke calmly.
“An elderly woman. Seventy-eight years old. Her son left her three years ago and never came back.”
Soren immediately felt a pang of sympathy.
“Poor thing…”
“She lives alone,” Lucian continued. “She needs someone to help around the house, keep her company, make sure she’s alright.”
He looked at her.
“I think someone like you would be perfect.”
Soren smiled with genuine gratitude.
“That’s wonderful! Really wonderful!”
Then she paused.
“And you… how did you find this so quickly?”
He shrugged slightly.
“I know people.”
She read the address quietly from the paper.
“Willow Street… house number twelve.”
Something strange flickered inside her chest as she spoke the name aloud.
But she ignored it.
“When do I start?”
“You can visit her tomorrow.”
She smiled at him warmly.
“Thank you, Lucian. Really… you saved me.”
He looked at her in a way that was difficult to interpret.
Then he said quietly,
“I hope so.”
And while she stood there holding the paper with excitement…
the television behind her replayed the image of
Daniel Morgan.
The news ticker at the bottom of the screen moved slowly across the gray light:
“The case remains without a suspect…”
But the date on the broadcast…
still pointed to a year
from three years ago.
The next morning…
Soren stood in front of house number twelve on Willow Street.
The house looked older than the other buildings nearby.
Its walls were pale, the paint cracked and peeling in thin lines, and the tall windows were framed with dark wooden panels that had clearly seen many winters.
The front garden was messy.
But not completely abandoned.
Some of the plants were trimmed.
Others had grown wild.
It looked as though someone took care of it occasionally…
and then suddenly stopped.
Soren took a deep breath.
“Alright, Soren… first real step.”
She knocked on the door.
No answer.
She waited.
Then knocked again, louder.
“Hello? Ma’am? My name is Soren! I came about the job!”
Silence.
She glanced around the place.
The curtains were drawn.
No sound of movement came from inside.
She hesitated.
Then gently pushed the door.
It opened.
“Hello?”
She stepped inside cautiously.
The interior of the house felt… very old.
The smell of aged wood lingered in the air.
The wooden floor creaked softly beneath her weight.
She closed the door behind her.
The first thing she noticed…
was the mirrors.
There were far too many of them.
Mirrors of different shapes and sizes hung on the walls.
Mirrors leaned against the floor.
Small mirrors sat on tables and shelves.
And statues.
Stone faces.
Miniature human figures.
Some of them were broken.
A nose missing.
A hand chipped away.
A faint chill crept along Soren’s spine.
She slipped off her shoes near the entrance.
“Sorry for coming in… I just—”
She walked further into the inner hall.
It was spacious.
The ceiling rose high above her, decorated with faded carvings that looked centuries old.
Light filtered down from a high window above, forming golden streaks through the dust floating in the air.
Despite everything…
she found the place beautiful.
“It’s lovely…”
she whispered.
And suddenly—
a quiet voice came from behind a heavy curtain in one corner.
“Who’s there?”
Her heart jumped, but she steadied herself.
“It’s me… Soren. I came about the job.”
A brief silence.
Then—
“Come in.”
She walked forward and politely sat on the chair across from the curtain.
“My name is Soren Allen. I studied psychology, but I’m here to help with housework and caregiving.”
The curtain moved slowly.
And the grandmother appeared for the first time.
She was very thin.
Her hair was completely white, tied neatly behind her head.
Her features were sharp, though not harsh.
Her eyes…
were pale gray.
She looked at Soren for a long moment.
“My name is Margaret.”
Soren froze for a second.
The name passed through her mind like a distant echo.
Familiar.
But she ignored the feeling.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
The old woman slowly sat down in her chair.
“Lucian told me you would come.”
Soren smiled lightly.
“Yes, he’s the one who guided me here.”
The old woman nodded.
“You’ll take care of the house. Cleaning. Cooking. And you will sit with me sometimes.”
“Of course.”
“Your pay will be weekly.”
They reached an agreement quickly.
Then Soren stood up with quiet enthusiasm.
“Where should I start?”
The old woman pointed toward the kitchen.
—
Soren began working immediately.
She opened the windows to refresh the air.
She dusted the tables carefully.
She gathered the old dishes and washed them thoroughly.
Her movements were energetic.
She hummed softly to herself while wiping the wooden floor.
She organized the shelves, rearranged old books, and cleaned the frames of the photographs hanging on the walls.
In one of the pictures…
she saw a young man standing beside the grandmother.
A man with dark eyes and a gentle smile.
Soren felt her chest tighten for no clear reason.
She quickly returned the photo to its place.
She prepared a simple soup for lunch.
Carefully chopped vegetables.
Set the table neatly.
Then she returned to the inner hall.
“Do you need anything else?”
The old woman slowly shook her head.
“You are energetic.”
Soren smiled.
“I like staying busy.”
Later, she sat near her and they spoke for a while.
About the weather.
About the past.
About the town.
But whenever Soren asked about her son…
the old woman fell silent.
And looked toward one of the nearby mirrors.
Soren noticed something strange.
The grandmother’s reflection in the mirror…
seemed slightly slower than her actual movement.
She blinked.
Looked again.
Everything was normal.
She smiled to herself.
“Just nerves.”
She continued organizing the rooms until evening.
The following days passed with a strange, quiet calm…
Every morning, Soren arrived at the house.
She opened the tall windows to let in air that always felt a little too cold, wiped away the dust that seemed to return as though it were slowly being born from the walls themselves, and prepared tea for the grandmother before sitting beside her for a while.
During that week…
she kept seeing the same photographs.
Pictures of the grandson.
There was one in almost every room.
Standing beside the grandmother.
Sitting on the staircase.
Holding a thick book with a confident smile on his face.
But something about them unsettled her.
His features…
were never completely clear.
Every time she stepped closer to examine the image, her eyes seemed to drift away slightly, as if the face itself refused to settle into her memory.
Once she whispered to herself,
“Strange… these pictures look so old.”
At the end of the week, after finishing the last room she had been cleaning, the grandmother called her in a faint voice.
“Soren… come here.”
Soren sat politely in front of her.
The old woman’s trembling hand reached out and gave her a small envelope.
“This is your payment.”
Soren opened it quickly, and her eyes lit up.
“Really?! Thank you!”
A small, almost childish laugh escaped her before she could stop it.
“Finally… my first pay here.”
The grandmother watched her for a long moment…
then sighed.
“You know… I can’t remember his name anymore.”
Soren paused.
“Whose name?”
“My grandson’s.”
A heavy silence filled the room.
The old woman continued in a weaker voice.
“He loved knowledge very much. He used to say he would go to the city of Rochester in America. He said it was a great university city… and that he would return as a famous scholar.”
Soren whispered quietly,
“Rochester…”
“He left three years ago,” the grandmother said. “And since that day… he never came back.”
The old woman’s lips trembled slightly.
“I cannot remember his name. Sometimes I feel that if I could just say it out loud… I would bring him back. But nothing comes.”
Soren felt her chest tighten for reasons she could not explain.
His face.
Rochester.
A disappearance three years ago.
A strange coldness spread slowly through her fingertips.
But she smiled gently and reached forward, holding the grandmother’s hand.
“Maybe he will return suddenly. Sometimes life surprises us.”
The grandmother lifted her pale gray eyes toward her.
“You are kind, Soren.”
“I studied psychology,” Soren said softly. “It’s my duty to reassure people.”
The old woman smiled faintly.
“Thank you.”
Then she added quietly,
“I would like a bath now.”
Soren stood up immediately.
“Of course! I’ll prepare it for you.”
She walked toward the bathroom, humming softly to herself, trying to shake away the vague unease that had settled in her chest.
She turned on the hot water.
Carefully adjusted the temperature.
Placed a clean towel nearby.
Poured a little floral bath soap into the tub.
Steam slowly began filling the small room.
She paused for a moment, leaning against the sink, staring at her reflection in the mirror.
Then she murmured to herself,
“The grandson… I wonder who he was.”
She closed her eyes slightly.
The photographs…
his smile…
the way he stood beside the grandmother…
It all felt strangely familiar.
“But why can’t I remember his face clearly?”
She opened her eyes suddenly.
Her reflection looked normal.
But behind her in the mirror…
for a fraction of a second—
she saw a shadow standing in the bathroom doorway.
She turned around quickly.
No one was there.
Her heart stopped for a moment… then began beating again.
“Just nerves… only nerves.”
She returned to adjusting the water.
But one thought continued whispering quietly inside her mind:
Why did his face look blurred in every photograph?
As if…
someone did not want her to remember him.
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