Vincent lifted his gaze.

“Good morning. Sorry to call so early, but it’s about Anna…”

She didn’t ask what the hell he was doing there. She simply opened the door wider and stepped back, weary, into the house.

The sitting room held a warm, muted light. Solid, unshowy furniture. A cross on the wall, a few neat icons and religious prints; in the corner a shelf or small table with a prayer book and holy text, candles beside them and the small things a hand reaches for by habit. Surfaces were almost bare, everything in its place. A throw lay straight on the sofa. The air smelled of clean rooms, tea, and a fine thread of wax, so that even an ordinary evening here felt a touch sterner, more deliberate.

On the coffee table lay a newspaper with Anna’s photograph on the front page and a few books on raising children. The glass in the family photo frames was smudged with fingerprints; Anna was in none of the pictures. Sarah had sunk into an armchair. Vincent stayed standing, one hand resting on the back of a chair. It felt wrong, somehow, to make himself comfortable.

“Anna is at St George’s Hospital. She’s under observation. She can be collected after the tests. I’m heading there now. If you’d like, we can go together. I should warn you. Anna has lost her memory. She doesn’t remember me. And, to be honest, I don’t know if she’ll remember you.”

She said nothing. There was no relief on her face, no joy, only a slow, blunt bewilderment. Sarah raised a heavy hand and rested her brow on her knuckles, as if her head had suddenly grown too heavy.

“Yesterday you said she was dead.”

She looked up, and accusation sparked in her eyes.

“Kurt and I saw her body in the mortuary. That day the reporters besieged our house. They whispered under the windows, filmed anything they could, frightened my children… And today you come and tell me she’s alive. I’d already buried her in my head. I can’t go through this again.”

She pushed herself up from the chair, took a few quick steps and stopped right in front of him.

“I’m sorry. That’s my fault,” Vincent said, barely above a whisper.

“Yes, yours. How dare you… how dare you make me relive this?”

A man had appeared in the hallway — Kurt, grey-faced, eyes wary. He stopped, not stepping in, but drinking in every sound.

“It’s been very hard for us. You can’t imagine what it’s like, managing her every day. I blamed myself for her death.”

Vincent kept silent. He was no detective now, just a man bringing a piece of news that was breaking their lives for a second time.

“I asked you to take her. A year ago. Remember? When it got really bad. But you wouldn’t listen.”

“What could I have done?”

“Oh yes, because you can’t even cope with your own daughter. I’ve got two other children besides Anna. Let her be your problem now. Until Anna turns eighteen, she’ll officially remain a member of our family. But I want her to live with you.”

Vincent clenched his fists.

In the hallway, Kurt leaned forward a fraction, his look wary and, at the same time… relieved. He said nothing.

“I need to recover. From everything we’ve been through. And it wouldn’t hurt you to take part in her life. For once. You’re her family.”

Kurt’s eyes moved from his wife to Vincent. The corners of his mouth twitched: almost a smile, but there was something wrong in it. There was nothing to say. Vincent simply nodded.

***

Anna sat on a hard chair in the doctor’s office, swinging one leg and clutching the disposable hospital pyjamas to herself. The door was ajar, and she could hear the voices beyond it perfectly well. Brilliant, Anna thought. Someone out there was discussing her like past-its-sell-by meat from a shop.

Anna had just leaned back and arranged her face into a look of utter indifference when the door swung fully open and a man in a white coat, glasses and a white respirator mask came in. He set a chair opposite and sat, hands folded on his knees.

“Tell me, Anna. How are you feeling?”

“Brilliant. I feel alive, which isn’t half bad. The only thing that really does my head in is the total memory loss.”

The doctor took a pen torch from his pocket.

“Memory loss can be a consequence of serious brain injury. We need to rule that out. I’m afraid you’ll have to stay in hospital a couple of days so we can keep an eye on you.”

He flicked the beam into her eyes. Anna stared straight ahead, patient as a statue. The pen torch stuttered; the light quivered. Her pupils stayed blown, black as a sinkhole. The doctor frowned.

“That’s not great. Hold out your arm. Let’s check your blood pressure.”

She obliged without enthusiasm, offering her left arm.

He took her wrist, staring with an odd, fixed attention, and hesitated.

“Can I see the right?”

Anna narrowed her eyes. He took her hand himself and turned it, palms up, then wrists up. His fingers slid carefully over her skin, as if searching. Irritation prickled.

“You’re acting weird.”

He looked up, his face tight with puzzled strain.

“I heard you were meant to have a mark on your wrist.”

Flash—motel bathroom, water, blood, a symbol cut into her own skin. She jerked her hands free. The doctor scratched his head, avoiding her eyes.

“It was mentioned in the news. Odd that it isn’t there.”

Just then the phone on the desk buzzed. An unknown number flashed on the screen. The doctor let out something like a relieved breath and gave Anna a strained smile.

“Sorry. I need to take this. Mind hanging on a moment?”

“Course,” Anna said sweetly, though inside everything had already tightened.

He slipped out. The door didn’t click shut. Anna waited only a couple of seconds, then rose without a sound and padded to it. She pressed her ear to the crack. She could make out enough: they were talking about her. Words like amnesia, mark, transfer to another hospital. Not Bin-sent, she noted to herself, eyes on the floor, still failing to remember his name.

“Maybe it’s my parents? For fuck’s sake, speak up, I can’t hear a bloody thing…”

The doctor fell silent for a second. Anna thought his footsteps had changed rhythm. She darted back to the chair a heartbeat before the door opened. He came in, his gaze skimming the room, lingering on Anna. She sat as before, only her hands were clamped hard on the edge of the seat.

He returned to the desk and glanced through her notes.

“So. As I said, you’ll have to stay. Not for a couple of days, more likely a couple of weeks. Not here, though. You’ll be transferred to another hospital. Our MRI scanner is currently unavailable, and your case needs a more thorough assessment.”

Anna tensed. Something clicked inside.

“Hold on. Weeks? We were talking about days. I hope you told my uncle about the transfer. He said he’d come back for me.”

Irritation flickered over the doctor’s face. For a fraction of a second the professional softness was gone, and only raw anger showed.

“But of course.”

That “of course” was enough. Anna stood.

“No, you know what… I don’t like this idea.”

She strode for the door. The doctor jumped up, knocking his chair over.

“Anna, stop! This is madness. In your condition you could drop at any moment.”

But she was already out in the corridor. Blue walls, the sting of bleach, a long straight run to the exit. The corridors were quiet at this hour. She sprinted forward, her bare soles slapping softly against the vinyl flooring.

“Bloody hell!” came the doctor’s voice behind her. “She’s a right pain!”