The office was louder than usual.
Keyboards clacked. Phones rang. Someone laughed too hard near the coffee machine. Yet Ethan felt detached from all of it, like he was moving through a place he didn't fully exist in anymore.
He sat at his desk, staring at lines of code he'd already written twice.
Nothing stuck.
The call wouldn't leave his head.
Not the words.
The tone.
That moment—when the voice on the line paused, as if it already knew him. As if it had been waiting for him to speak first.
Ethan leaned back in his chair and rubbed his temples.
Why do I feel like I've heard that voice before?
The thought slid in quietly, then stayed.
He glanced at his reflection in his black monitor screen. Same face. Same tired eyes. But something felt… misaligned. Like a door in his head had been nudged open and refused to close again.
His mind drifted—backward.
To peeling paint.
To iron beds.
To a smell he couldn't name but never forgot.
The orphanage.
He hadn't thought about it in years. Not properly. Not beyond the occasional nightmare or half-memory that dissolved the moment he woke up.
But now?
Now it felt close.
Too close.
What if the answers didn't start here?
What if they started there?
A chair scraped beside him.
"You're going to break the screen if you keep staring like that."
Ethan jumped slightly.
Clara stood next to his desk, coffee in hand, eyebrows raised—not teasing, not concerned. Observing.
"Sorry," he muttered. "Just… thinking."
"That's new," she said lightly, then took a sip. "You okay? You've been quiet all morning."
He hesitated.
Just for a second too long.
"I was thinking about visiting the orphanage I grew up in," he said finally.
Clara's smile didn't vanish—but it changed.
Subtle. Almost unnoticeable.
"Your orphanage?" she repeated. "What brought that up?"
Ethan shrugged, pretending it wasn't a big deal. "I don't know. Just feels like… something I should do."
She studied him now, really studied him.
"Do you remember much about it?" she asked.
"Not really," he admitted. "Faces blur. Names disappear. But the place itself… I can still see it."
Clara nodded slowly, as if filing that away.
"Well," she said, placing her cup down, "if you're going, I'll come with you."
Ethan looked up, surprised. "You don't have to do that."
"I know," she replied. "That's why I want to."
A beat.
"Besides," she added casually, "everyone needs someone to walk into the past with. Makes it less… lonely."
Something about the way she said it made his chest tighten.
"You sure?" he asked. "It's not exactly a fun trip."
She smiled then. Warm. Reassuring. Almost too perfect.
"I'm sure."
Ethan nodded, unease curling quietly in his stomach.
Because he couldn't shake the feeling that Clara already knew where they were going.
And worse—
Why.
Outside, the city moved on as usual.
Inside Ethan's head, the past had just cleared its throat.
And it wasn't done speaking.
The drive was quiet.
Not the comfortable kind — the kind where silence pressed against the windows and settled between breaths.
Ethan kept his eyes on the road, hands tight on the steering wheel. The city thinned out slowly, buildings giving way to older streets, cracked sidewalks, forgotten corners. Every turn felt familiar in a way that made his chest ache.
Clara watched him from the passenger seat.
Not openly.
Through reflections.
"You sure this is the way?" she asked softly.
Ethan nodded without hesitation. "Yeah. I didn't remember the address… but my hands did."
That earned him a glance.
"Your hands?"
"Yeah," he said. "They just… turned."
They drove the rest of the way without speaking.
Then the orphanage appeared.
It hadn't changed much.
Same dull cream walls. Same rusted gate. Same crooked sign hanging by one screw:
ST. MARY'S HOME FOR CHILDREN
The paint was faded. The letters uneven. Time had been unkind—but not enough to erase it.
Ethan parked across the street.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
His heart was pounding now, fast and shallow.
"This place…" he muttered. "It looks smaller."
"Everything does," Clara replied. "When you come back grown."
He stepped out of the car.
The air smelled different here — dust, old trees, something metallic. The gate creaked as he pushed it open, the sound slicing straight through his spine.
The courtyard was empty.
No children playing.
No laughter.
Just stillness.
Ethan walked slowly, every step pulling memories loose like threads.
The cracked fountain. The bench under the neem tree. The window on the second floor with the broken shutter.
"I used to sit there," he said suddenly, pointing.
Clara followed his gaze. "Why?"
"So I could watch the gate," he replied. "I thought… maybe one day someone would come back for me."
The words came out flat.
Too practiced.
Clara didn't answer.
They reached the front door.
Ethan hesitated before knocking.
His knuckles hovered in the air.
Then—
The door opened.
An older woman stood there, glasses perched low on her nose. She looked tired. Sharp. Observant.
"Yes?" she asked.
Ethan swallowed. "I—I used to live here. A long time ago."
Her eyes flicked over him once.
Then twice.
Something shifted.
"…Ethan?" she said quietly.
His breath caught. "You remember me?"
She stepped back slowly, disbelief etched into her face. "You disappeared."
The word landed wrong.
"Disappeared?" he echoed.
She nodded. "One day you were here. The next—your file was gone. No transfer notice. No adoption papers. Nothing."
Ethan felt the ground tilt slightly beneath his feet.
"That's not possible," he whispered. "I left when I was—"
"You didn't leave," she cut in gently. "You were taken."
Clara's fingers brushed his arm.
Light.
Anchoring.
The woman glanced at Clara. "And you are?"
"Family," Clara said smoothly.
The lie slid out too easily.
The woman studied her for a long moment… then stepped aside.
"Come in," she said. "There are things you should see."
The hallway smelled exactly the same.
Disinfectant and damp walls.
Ethan's pulse roared in his ears as they walked past old doors, old rooms—places where pieces of him still lived.
They stopped at a filing cabinet.
The woman pulled out a thin folder.
Worn.
Yellowed.
She handed it to him.
His name was written on the front.
ETHAN COLE
Hands shaking, he opened it.
Inside—
Medical evaluations. Behavioral notes. Psychological observations.
Then one page stopped him cold.
A photograph.
Not of a child.
Of a man.
Older.
Familiar.
Too familiar.
Ethan's breath stuttered. "That's… that's not—"
Clara leaned in slightly, her eyes locking onto the image.
Her face didn't change.
But something behind her eyes did.
The woman spoke quietly.
"That man came here asking questions about you. Years ago. After that… you vanished."
Ethan's head buzzed.
"Do you remember his name?" he asked.
The woman hesitated.
"…Reeve."
The room went very still.
Outside, a car passed.
Inside, Ethan felt something deep inside him shift — like a lock turning for the first time.
He didn't know why his hands were shaking.
He didn't know why his chest hurt.
He only knew one thing with absolute certainty:
This trip wasn't a coincidence.
And someone had been watching him long before he ever knew to look back.
Clara's voice broke the silence, soft but unreadable.
"Ethan…"
He turned to her.
And for the first time since meeting her—
He wondered what she wasn't telling him.