Chapter 2: The Photograph in His Pocket
The entire room held its breath.
The tattooed man took one slow step closer.
Then another.
His eyes never left her face — searching, burning, like he was trying to tear the truth out of her before she could speak it.
"Answer me," he said.
Low.
Quiet.
Far more frightening than a shout.
The maid's lips parted.
Nothing came out.
The little boy was still staring up at her, his small hand now curled around her fingers without either of them noticing.
"She smells like Mama," he said softly.
"She smells exactly like Mama."
A sharp gasp rippled through the crowd.
The man's jaw tightened so hard a muscle flickered in his cheek.
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a photograph — worn at the edges, folded once down the middle like it had been opened and closed a thousand times.
He held it out in front of her face.
"Is this you?" he asked.
His voice cracked on the last word.
Just barely.
Just enough.
The maid looked at the photograph.
Her hand began to shake.
Because staring back at her from that faded image was a young woman in a white dress, laughing in a garden — a woman she had spent five years trying to forget she had ever been.
😨
She took one step back.
May you like
Then the man said four words that stopped her completely.
"Emma is still alive." 😤
