"Sometimes chasing your obsession just to satisfy yourself."
"It just proving that you can survive it."
The rain taps against the window, soft, rhythmic — like a heartbeat I can't tell is mine anymore.
Berlin looks peaceful from here. Almost forgiving.
Lucas is still talking — something about safety, about how I don't have to keep chasing what my mother left behind — but his voice feels far away, drowned under the hum of the bar's old lights.
I nod when he looks at me, but I'm not really there.
I'm somewhere between her death and the flight I'll take in six hours.
Between who I was and who I have to be next.
"You know," he says, pointing at me with the grace of a man who's completely sober in his imagination, "normal people deal with grief by journaling, or therapy. Not by booking a one-way ticket to the bloody murder capital of Scotland."
I take a sip. "Therapy's expensive."
"So is dying."
He groans, slumping into the booth. "You know, sometimes I think your mom's ghost is following you around, whispering, 'make bad choices, Anna, make them fast.'"
"Would explain the turbulence in my flights."
I glared at him.
For a second, he's quiet — and that's rare for Lucas. Then he nods, finishing his drink in one miserable gulp.
"Well," he mutters, wiping his mouth, "if you die, I'm taking your Spotify account."
"Over my dead body."
"That's literally the plan."
We both laugh — sharp, tired, and way too loud for the hour.
Lucas sat across from me, head tilted back, eyes glassy from too many drinks and too much honesty.
He didn't talk anymore.
He didn't have to.
"Thank you," I said quietly. The words felt small — too small for what I meant.
For staying.
For not asking me to stop.
For pretending this was just another night, not a goodbye for my fate.
He blinked, slow, like it took effort to register it. "For what?"
"For… walking beside me when everyone else ran the other way.
The silence after that was long enough to make me aware of my own breathing. I stared at the half-melted ice in my glass — reflections of light breaking and bending — and for once, I didn't try to hold myself together.
One tear slipped down before I could stop it. Just one. Enough.
Mother.
Isn't I'm right?
Lucas saw it. I knew he did.
But he didn't say anything.
Instead, in that clumsy, unguarded way only he could manage, he leaned forward across the table — slow, hesitant, almost asking permission without words.
My eyes widen.
His lips brushed mine.
Not desperate. Not deep.
Just a question.
For a heartbeat, I let it happen.
I didn't pull away, didn't answer either.
What the fuck is just happening.
When he drew back, there was that stupid, crooked grin again.
"Guess that was… bad timing," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.
In a swift motion, how the hell we already end up in his car.
Skin to skin.
Breath mingling with breath.
My head spun around.
Lips to lips.
Fuck.
I have to stop this.
But…
Is feel good and worse at that same time.
I can feel his hand holding my nape tightly, as if he will break my neck everytime he want.
His glasses blocking our way to each other.
He said something — rough, breathless — against my mouth, and that sound alone almost pulled me apart.
And just like that, reason snapped back.
I shoved him back, chest heaving. "Stop," I said, my voice trembling more from fear of myself than of him.
For a heartbeat, neither of us moved.
The only sound left was our breathing, tangled with the rain drumming against the windshield.
"I—I'm sorry…" I whispered.
The words came out small, broken, barely mine.
Lucas didn't say anything at first. He just sat there, breathing hard, eyes unfocused like he was trying to remember what planet we were on.
Rain slipped down the car windows, tracing light through the dark.
He finally exhaled — a shaky, almost tired laugh.
"Yeah," he muttered, voice low. "Me too."
I looked at him. His glasses were slightly crooked, his hair a mess. The sight almost made me laugh — almost.
Instead, I bit the inside of my cheek, feeling the weight of everything I didn't mean to happen pressing down on my chest.
"I didn't—" I started, but he cut me off gently.
"Don't," he said, voice softer now. "You don't have to explain. We're both… not ourselves tonight."
My phone buzzed against my thigh.
Once. Then again.
I blinked, still trying to piece myself together. The air in the car smelled like rain and regret.
I pulled the phone up — Maya.
A single message:
"I would like to talk to you."
"Can you drive me to the hospital?" I asked him quietly.
He didn't hesitate. Just turned the key, engine roaring to life like it knew the urgency before we did.
Outside, the rain picked up again, tapping against the glass like impatient fingers.
Neither of us spoke for a while. The road lights stretched long and blurry ahead, and my reflection looked like someone else entirely — someone lost, someone running on ghosts and coffee.
"You feeling unwell somewhere?"
I shook my head.
I looked at him — the faint bruise at his collarbone, his messed-up hair, his stupidly kind eyes hiding behind those crooked glasses. For a moment, I almost wanted to laugh again. Almost.
"Lucas…"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks. For… not asking too many questions."
He smiled, small and tired. "You'd just lie anyway."
That earned a real laugh out of me, even if it hurt.
Outside, the rain thickened, slicing through the windshield in silver lines, and I let my eyes close — just for a second — pretending the sound could wash away everything I didn't have the courage to say.
Lucas pulled up and killed the engine. The silence stretched, only broken by the soft patter of rain against the roof.
"Want me to wait?"
"No need, thank you."
"Want me to wait?" Lucas asked, his voice low, careful, as if giving me space without really leaving me alone.
"No need, thank you," I murmured, forcing a smile I didn't feel. My fingers fidgeted with the strap of my bag, twisting it around and around like it could untangle the mess in my chest.
He nodded, eyes lingering on me a second longer than necessary, a question unasked hanging between us. I knew him well enough to sense the weight of it — worry, curiosity, something more buried underneath the tipsy bravado he always carried.
"I'll… I'll be quick," I added, mostly to myself, more to keep him from hovering.
He just give me a final glance and left.
The hospital loomed ahead, sterile lights cutting through the rain like knives. I walked in without hesitation, boots tapping against the polished floor in a rhythm that almost calmed the storm in my chest. No frantic glances, no faltering steps — just purpose.
The receptionist barely looked up as I passed. I didn't speak. Words would only betray me, and right now, I needed to be unreadable.
The elevator ride was quiet. I adjusted the volume on my hearing aids, the faint hum of the city outside filtered through, soft and distant, almost comforting in its predictability.
When the door to their room slid open, I stepped in without knocking. The faint beep of the machines, the soft whir of the ventilator, the muted rustle of papers on the bedside table — all registered, but I didn't flinch.
Maya looked up from adjusting the IV, a flicker of surprise crossing her face. "Anna…" she started, but I cut her off with a tilt of my head.
No warmth. No softness. Just measured eyes, scanning the room, scanning Mona's pale form.
"She's stable?" I asked, voice even, almost distant. My hearing aids picked up the low hiss of the monitors clearly, letting me judge every pulse and rhythm with precision.
"Yes," Maya replied, swallowing whatever else she might have said. Her hands fidgeted at her side.
"Tell me, I don't have time." My voice cold.
"…"
"…"
I looked up from the clipboard. The fluorescent light hummed faintly above us — too bright, too sterile. My hearing aids picked up every small noise; the drip, the shuffle of nurses outside, even the soft flutter of the curtains. It all felt unbearably loud.
"With Mona," she added, her tone trembling, "I—I know the treatment won't work anymore. I'd rather use the money you gave us to make her comfortable. She wants to see the place her Mom used to talk about before she… before everything."
Finding mom?
I didn't answer right away. The silence between us stretched, thick as smoke. I could feel the question hanging there, heavy, almost unbearable.
"That's not safe," I said finally, too flat, too quick. "The city isn't—"
"I know," Maya cut me off, for once not afraid. "But what's left for her here? White walls? Machines that can only count time until she stops breathing?"
My eyebrows raised. "Are you blaming me?"
She met my gaze head-on — no hesitation this time, no guilt, no trembling lip. Just quiet fury behind those tired eyes.
"I'm not blaming you," she said slowly, "I just…I—I'm sorry..".
I turned away, staring at the small figure lying in the hospital bed. Mona's eyes were half-open, cloudy but still searching for something — maybe light, maybe the memory of a sky she couldn't see anymore.
I approached the bed, sitting down beside her. The faint hum of my hearing aids caught her shallow breathing, each inhale like a thread pulling me closer to something I wasn't ready to face.
"Hello…" I whispered.
Her eyes fluttered, gaze fall on mine, is hollow, but hopefully.
Her lips twitched, the corner of her mouth curling weakly. "Mommy like to….walk on sand…,"
Her eyes softened in tired and painful.
"You'll… find her, right?"
I froze. I hated promises — they always felt like chains.
"You will run… no matter what, right?"
I froze. My throat tightened. The air around me suddenly felt colder, heavier, like someone had just walked through me.
"You will leave everyone behind…"
A low chuckle followed, slick and poisonous. "…like you left your mother behind."
"Anna."
I blinked, swallowing hard. My throat felt raw, my voice colder than I meant it to be.
"No…" I said quietly, meeting her eyes. "We will find her."
The words tasted like ash — a promise I wasn't sure I had the right to make, but one I needed to believe in anyway.
The words tasted like ash — a promise I wasn't sure I had the right to make, but one I needed to believe in anyway.
I promised too much.
Too many people thought they could rely on me, on my shoulder, as if I knew where I was going.
Right.
I understand my mother's burden now — too many eyes, too many mouths, all waiting for one thing: her voice to make sense of the chaos. Her judgment to justify the pain.
And now this little girl is asking me to find her mother.
Like it's something I can do.
Like I'm not still trying to find mine.
Think, Anna. Think.
Writing news will not fix this.
No headline, no column, no interview can resurrect what's already gone cold.
But maybe… maybe I can still do something right, even if it's just once.
I sat down, brushing a strand of hair from Mona's forehead. My voice dropped, softer. "You'll get better, okay? We'll go somewhere with real sunlight this time. Not these damn fluorescent lights."
"Promise?"
Her tiny fingers reached for mine — and when they curled around them, I felt my throat close.
"Promise," I said.
My hand trembled just slightly, but I let it stay there.
I shut my eyes, my jaw tightening. For a second, I thought of saying no again — the logical answer, the practical one. But logic never survived long around ghosts.
"Fine," I said at last, my voice quieter than I intended. "Pack what you need. We leave tomorrow morning."
Maya's eyes widened. "Anna—"
"Don't thank me," I cut her off sharply, standing up, fixing my coat. "Just be ready."
As I stepped out of the room, I caught a glimpse of Mona's face in the reflection of the glass door. She was smiling faintly, eyes half-closed.
It was the kind of smile that made you wish you'd said no — just to save yourself from breaking later.
—§—
The rain hammered against the bridge, blurring the edges of the world like a watercolor left out in a storm.
The river below gurgled and churned, uncaring, relentless, just like the memories I tried to bury.
I could still see her — Mom — falling through that stormy sky, her hair plastered to her face, her hands reaching for something, anything… me. The image burned into the back of my mind, refusing to fade.
Why didn't I stop it?
Why wasn't I faster?
Why?
A shiver ran through me, but I didn't move. I let the rain mix with the tears I didn't want anyone to see.
I leaned closer to the railing, letting the wind whip through my hair, letting the rain cover my face completely. I cried, truly cried, for the first time in years, hiding it from the world but not from myself.
I barely registered the shadow before it was there, looming over me. A large hand clamped down on the railing beside mine, the metal rattling under the sudden force.
"Anna," a deep, steady voice called.
I jerked my head up, rain plastering my hair to my face. Through the gray haze, I saw him — Bulvok. His coat was heavy and dark, the collar turned up against the storm. In one swift motion, he pulled an umbrella from his side and tilted it over me, shielding my head from the worst of the rain.
"You shouldn't be out here alone," he said, voice low but firm. The wind tugged at his words, but they carried weight, grounding me more than I realized I needed.
I silence.
"About our plan," he began, voice low but deliberate, carrying over the drizzle still clinging to my coat. "I already sent the report to my chiefs. They accepted our taking over the case."
I blinked, the words slow to register. The rain dripped from my hair, plastering it against my forehead, but I didn't care. "You… what?" My voice was barely audible over the storm, and I wasn't sure I wanted it to be heard.
Bulvok's eyes held mine, steady, unyielding. "We're not waiting for anyone else. The Mockingbird case… it's ours now. You and I."
I barely smile, confusing.
Later that day, his daughter throwing tantrum on me thought that I am some nonsense agent trying to bring him down the mud again are her brother gone.
I thought he had given up — chosen to let the storm pass, to shield himself from both the case and the chaos of his family. But no. The weight in his gaze told me otherwise. He hadn't given up. Not yet.
I chewed my lip, cold dread mixing with the smallest spark of resolve. "And if I fail?"
"You won't," he said sharply, but without harshness — the kind of certainty that both comforts and terrifies
I let out a shaky breath, letting it mingle with the mist. The storm around us hadn't lessened, but somehow, under his gaze, the chaos felt… manageable.
"Alright," I said finally, my voice firmer than I expected. "Let's take it."
I shivered, partly from the cold, partly from the weight of his words — but for the first time in a long while, I felt like I wasn't running alone.
I returned to my father's mansion under the night cold sky, the air heavy with the lingering scent of polished wood and old stone. Each step echoed against the marble floor as if the house itself were reminding me of all the ghosts it held.
Boxes waited in the corner of my old room — some familiar, some strange, all a relic of the life. Thanks to Hugo.
I barely remembered but had to claim. I brushed dust from the lids and carefully lifted the first one, revealing my mother's handwriting scattered across journals, photographs, and small trinkets I hadn't seen in years. Each object weighed heavier than it should, memories pressing against my chest with both grief and nostalgia.
"You will go with me," I whispered to it, as if like I'm talking to her.
"Ah, Anna…"
Claudia leaned against the doorway, one hand on her hip, the other twirling a strand of her perfectly styled hair. Her smirk was sharp enough to cut glass.
"Ah, Anna… finally you're back," she drawled, voice dripping with mock sweetness. "Tell me, do you really think you can handle all of this on your own?"
She stepped inside, the sharp click of her heels echoing against the polished floor.
"Well, this room… it's fit," she said, running a manicured hand along the wall, "for my dog, perhaps. Not for someone like you."
Her eyes flicked toward the boxes I carried, and the smirk tugged wider. "What's in those anyway? Old memories? Dusty little toys? I suppose sentimental nonsense is all you have left now, isn't it?"
I held my mother's letter tucked under my arm, letting it peek out just enough to catch Claudia's attention. Her eyes flicked down, curiosity replacing her smugness.
"Well, well," she said, her voice dripping with false amusement. "What's that you've got there? A little note from daddy dearest?"
I let a slow, measured smile curl at the corner of my lips. "Something like that. A reminder that some people still have leverage… even when you think they don't."
Claudia stepped closer, trying to snatch a peek. "Oh? Do tell. Or are you keeping secrets from me?"
I tilted my head, letting my voice stay soft, almost playful. "Secrets, yes. But only ones worth knowing. And believe me… you're not on that list."
Her smirk faltered, the first real crack in her confident façade. "You think you can play me?"
I let the faintest shrug answer her. "I don't play. I survive. And some of us… we don't need to bark to prove we're dangerous."
She opened her mouth, trying to respond, but I turned on my heel, letting the sound of my heels echo in the room, leaving her grasping at empty air—and a subtle reminder that I'd already won this round.
By the time I reached the bottom, sweat prickled at my temples, and my arms ached—not from the weight of the boxes, but from the heaviness of everything they represented.
"Hugo," I said, spotting my father's trusted driver standing patiently near the door. His posture was as steady as ever, a silent reassurance in the chaos of the mansion.
He approached, extending a hand—not for the boxes, but for a small envelope that had appeared in his grasp. "This just arrived for you, Miss Anna," he said softly, his voice carrying a note of caution I hadn't heard in years.
I opened it slowly.
"Alastair MacRae"
My fingers trembled slightly as I turned the envelope over, checking for a sender. No return address. Just the inked name, precise and deliberate, as if whoever wrote it wanted me to feel the weight of recognition before understanding.
Hugo waited patiently, silent, as if he knew better than to interrupt.
I whispered to myself, though the words barely left my lips, "What the hell… who is this?"
I folded it back carefully, tucking it close to my chest. Tomorrow, I realized, Edinburgh wouldn't just be a city—it would be the beginning of a never ending night.