Susan nodded and continued writing. A door slammed in a nearby office, followed by footsteps that faded away. Alex studied the familiar features of her face and realized: either she truly didn’t remember, or she had learned to bury her feelings so deep that even she couldn’t find them.
“Do you have your ID?” she asked, and Alex handed over his driver’s license, wondering if she would recognize the last name.
But Susan copied the information mechanically, like a robot programmed for politeness. He opened a small account, but he already knew: this was just the beginning.
“Goodbye,” Alex said at the door.
“Have a good day,” she replied, already turning to the next stack of papers.
But as the door closed, Alex heard the soft clatter of a pen falling to the floor. And that tiny sound said more than words ever could.
The window of the apartment across the street was like a television screen. Alex had rented the place for a month and was now studying the daily routine of the woman who once sang him lullabies. Susan woke up at seven. Coffee, shower, business suit. No one ever visited; she never went to see anyone. But Fridays were different. On Fridays, she would buy a bouquet of white chrysanthemums and go to the cemetery.
Alex followed her and read the name on the headstone—Stephen Morgan. Loving Husband and Father. His father had died in 2004, the year they were left at the group home. Alex knew that to solve the mystery of that day, he had to learn more about their family’s history. About what happened twenty years ago, when their childhood world collapsed like a house of cards.
The notepad on his table was covered in notes. Alex studied his mother’s habits: when she arrived at the bank, who she spoke with, when she took her breaks. Susan wore a wedding ring on her right hand. There were no personal photos on her desk, just a single potted plant. When he mentioned the word “children,” her voice grew quieter. When he said “family,” she turned to her computer.
Alex devised a plan: regular visits under various pretexts. Corporate accounts, financial statements, wire transfers—any reason to sit across from her and study her reactions. He was already preparing childhood photos, inventing stories about group homes, about abandoned children. He wanted to force her to remember through a series of “coincidences.” The goal was simple: to break down the protective wall she had built around her heart.
His phone rang. It was Maria.
“Alex, you haven’t answered my calls in two weeks. What’s going on?” His sister’s voice was filled with concern.
“I’m working on a difficult project,” Alex lied. “The most difficult one of my life.”
The sound of the printer was like machine-gun fire: short, sharp, and relentless. Alex sat in the same office, in the same chair across from his mother, but this time he had a plan. Susan was printing a corporate card agreement, occasionally glancing at her computer screen.
“So this is for an IT company?” she clarified, her eyes fixed on the keyboard. “What’s your field?”
“Mobile app development,” Alex replied, adjusting his tie. “And we also do charity work. We support local children’s homes.”
Susan froze for a second, then resumed typing. Alex noticed the rhythm of her keystrokes had slowed, as if she were weighing each word.
“That’s commendable,” she said neutrally. “Socially responsible businesses are important.”
“I grew up in a group home myself,” Alex said, watching her face. “I know how hard it is for kids without a family.”
At the words “group home,” his mother lowered her gaze to the documents. She no longer looked at him directly, speaking only to the papers. Alex took a glossy brochure for his company out of his briefcase.
“You can keep our information,” he offered. “In case the bank is ever interested in partnering with a charity.”
“Of course,” Susan replied and mechanically placed the brochure in a folder without even looking at it. The gesture was automatic, like someone who had long ago learned not to think about what they were doing.
The printer fell silent, leaving only the ticking of the wall clock. A photograph lay on the desk between them, a bridge between the past and the present. Susan picked it up, studying the interior details: high ceilings, large windows, herringbone wood floors.
“It’s a nice layout,” she said in a steady voice, but Alex saw her fingers were trembling slightly. “How many bedrooms are you planning?”
“Four,” he answered, watching her reaction closely. “I want a big place for my future family. I plan on having a lot of kids.”
The photo was of the renovated lobby of the children’s home, but it did look like a high-end apartment. Susan continued to study the picture, her face a stone mask.
“And how many children is the right number to plan for?” Alex asked, pretending it was casual conversation. “What do you think?”
“That’s a personal decision for everyone,” his mother replied formally, but her right hand shook as she handed the photo back.
Alex put the picture away like a piece of evidence. A car drove by outside, its headlights sweeping across the office for a second before plunging it back into shadow.
The employee time-off records lay before Alex like a treasure map. He had paid a clerk in the bank’s payroll department to get a look at Susan’s vacation schedule for the past few years. And he found what he was looking for. Every year on March 15th: a sick day. Always for one day, always without explanation. Alex checked a calendar from 2004. March 15th—the exact day they were brought to the group home.
He sat in his car across from her house all day. The lights were on, but his mother never left. Not for groceries, not for a walk—nowhere. The day passed slowly, like an old film in slow motion. As evening fell, Alex saw a silhouette in the window. Susan was sitting in an armchair, staring at nothing. Not at the TV, not at a book, just into the void. She sat like that until late at night, when the light finally went out.
“She remembers,” Alex whispered into the darkness of his car. “She remembers, she’s suffering, but she’s hiding it even from herself.”
The streetlights came on one by one, like candles on the grave of a day no one wanted to bury. The childhood photos were fanned out on her desk, and Susan picked them up with trembling hands. The pictures showed a boy of about eight and a girl of six, standing in a forest clearing among tall pines. The sun filtered through the branches, creating a play of light and shadow on their faces.
“Alex and Maria,” Alex said, watching his mother’s expression. “My niece and nephew. I want to open a savings account for them.”
Susan studied the photos for a long time, turning them under her desk lamp. Alex could see her eyelids twitching, like someone trying to recall a forgotten dream.
“It was their favorite place,” he continued softly. “A pine forest just outside the city. Their parents used to take them there.”
“They’re beautiful children,” his mother said quietly, and for the first time in all their meetings, her voice held a hint of emotion. “Where are their parents now?”
“They lost them,” Alex replied, each word a struggle. “A long time ago. The kids grew up and are looking for them.”
Susan placed the photos on the desk but kept her hands near them, as if she couldn’t bring herself to move away. A phone rang in the next office, but the sound seemed distant, like an echo from another world. The charity foundation’s brochure lay between them, its cover featuring a photo of the newly renovated Hillside Children’s Home. Alex pushed it closer to his mother.
“I’d like to make a donation to this facility,” he said. “Hillside Children’s Home. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”
“We don’t typically handle donations to such institutions,” Susan answered dryly, but her hands were clenched into tight fists.
Alex leaned back in his chair, pretending to think.
“I have a friend who grew up there,” he began thoughtfully. “He told me some interesting stories. There was a caregiver named Gail Evans, a kind woman who read the children stories. And in the hallway, there was a board with photos of the graduates.”
Susan listened without interrupting, but her knuckles had turned white from the strain. Alex continued to describe the group home in minute detail: the dormitory on the second floor, the cafeteria with its long tables, the playroom with a piano in the corner.
“It’s strange that you know the layout so well,” his mother observed, a faint tremor in her voice.
“My friend told me,” Alex shrugged. “He has a good memory for details…”
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