How did she know Avery’s name?
Why did she look at her like that—like she had been waiting her entire life?
After that, it became routine.
“Avery… please…”
“Avery, it’s me…”
“Avery, they lied to me…”
Teachers said to ignore her. Neighbors said she belonged in a hospital. And her adoptive parents said she was dangerous.
But late at night, Avery couldn’t stop thinking about her. About how the woman knew the tiny birthmark behind her left ear—a mark no one ever saw unless they brushed her hair aside.
Only her parents knew.
Or so she thought.
One rainy afternoon, Avery dropped her notebook. When she bent to pick it up, the woman picked it up too. Their hands brushed. Avery froze.
The woman’s eyes—warm, mournful, strangely familiar—locked onto hers.
“You have your father’s eyes,” she whispered.
Avery stumbled backward.
“How do you know that?”
The woman’s jaw trembled.
“Because they told me you died.”
Avery ran home without remembering her own footsteps.
“Mom,” she choked to Elaine, “she knew about my birthmark.”
Elaine went pale. Mark stepped into the kitchen—confused, worried.
For the first time in her life, Avery saw fear in her mother’s eyes.
Not fear of danger.
Fear of truth.