They became family. Strange, unusual, pieced from patches of grief and hope, but family still. Stephen worked in forestry, Evelyn ran the household, and little Emily grew, surrounded by love that amply compensated lack of material goods.
Emily was an unusual child. Observant, thoughtful, with stubborn character and unexpected depth for her age. In her amazingly combined mother’s beauty and something else.
Some refinement, intelligence, as if emerging through blood from the unknown father. Stephen adored her. For him, she was the sun rising every morning, rainbow after rain, star in night sky.
He crafted her toys, wooden horses, straw dolls, tiny windmills spinning from wind. Taught her to distinguish animal tracks in forest, listen to bird calls, find edible berries and mushrooms. Emily wasn’t yet three when illness began undermining Stephen’s strength.
Cancer, inoperable. Was the doctors’ verdict. The girl was too small to understand what was happening, but sensitive enough to feel the heaviness hanging in the house.
She often climbed onto Stephen’s lap when he sat leaning against the stove, trying to warm even on warm days.
— Daddy hurt?
She asked, touching his hollow cheeks with palms.
— No, my little fish!
He answered, though pain twisted his insides.
— Daddy’s just very tired. Once, when Stephen lay in fever, and Evelyn changed cold cloths on his forehead, he whispered
— How to explain to her? She won’t even remember me.
Evelyn squeezed his burning hand.
— She will. I’ll do everything so she remembers. Then disaster struck.
Quietly, without loud words or sobs. Stephen simply didn’t wake one spring morning, when gardens bloomed and bees hummed over first flowers. Little Emily stood at the grave, clinging tightly to grandma’s skirt.
She didn’t understand what was happening, why everyone cried, why they lowered a wooden box into the ground.
— Grandma, where’s daddy?
She asked evening, when Evelyn put her to bed. And Evelyn, swallowing tears, invented a fairy tale, kind, light, able to comfort not only the child, but her own bleeding heart too.
Daddy went to collect songs, dear. He travels the whole world, listens to birds sing, sea roar, children laugh. Then makes songs from those sounds and gives to people so they won’t be sad.
— And mommy?
Came the inevitable question.
— And mommy?
Evelyn’s voice trembled with held tears. Mommy so light and beautiful a strong wind carried her to the sky.
Now she works with clouds, herding them so rain comes on time. These were fairy tales invented from despair and love, woven to console not only Emily, but Evelyn herself.
Seven years. Long term for a healthy person and instant for one whose soul froze in time. For Dennis, these years became slow immersion into obsession’s abyss.
It all started the day Victor threw the truth in his face in heat of argument. Truth about Sophia, their affair, the child possibly conceived from him.
— She loved me,
Victor shouted then, losing usual restraint.
— Always loved. And left not because she found another, but because you turned her life into a cage.
Those words embedded in Dennis’s mind like glass shards.
Didn’t leave him day or night. Gradually his whole life, successful career, connections, plans, crumbled. First he started drinking.
Then skipping shifts at the clinic. Erred during a simple operation. Hospital quietly got rid of him, paying compensation for voluntary resignation.
Medical license soon suspended. Money melted. Friends vanished.
Women came and went, not lingering with a man whose eyes burned with unhealthy gleam, conversations invariably returning to betrayal and justice. But Victor prospered. Became partner in prestigious law firm.
Married an elegant woman from good family. And just three months ago, they had a son. Tiny boy with dark eyes like his father’s.
Dennis learned this accidentally, seeing a photo in a magazine about new wing opening at children’s hospital. Victor stood next to his wife holding the newborn. They smiled.
Happy, successful, prosperous. At that moment, something finally broke in Dennis’s soul. Before his eyes flashed images.
Sophia, their short marriage, her departure, his own fall. And at the center of this whirlpool of destruction was Victor. Victor, who took his wife from him.
Victor, now enjoying family happiness while Dennis lost everything. «Unfair,» he whispered, examining the photo. «Unfair.»
And then the plan was born, so clear, so precise, it scared him himself. But he couldn’t stop. First step was surveillance.
Dennis began tailing Victor’s wife, fragile brunette named Catherine. Studied her schedule, habits, routes. She often walked the baby in park near their home in upscale district.
Sometimes with nanny, plump middle-aged woman eternally talking on phone. Dennis watched them, sitting on bench hidden by newspaper. Saw the touching picture of young mother bending over stroller, adjusting blanket, cooing to tiny son.
The boy was named William, after grandfather on mother’s side. Dennis learned this overhearing nanny’s talk with another woman walking a child nearby. William.
Dennis reached the familiar places by morning. The small town appeared on the horizon.
The same where Sophia once lived, where her mother remained, where perhaps her daughter still lived. He didn’t drive into town. Turned onto forest road leading aside.
William by then slept, exhausted by long ride and lack of usual feeding. Dennis stopped the car at forest edge. Took the child from car, wrapped tighter in blanket, and headed into forest depths.
— It’s symbolic, you see?
He said to the sleeping infant.
— Here, in these woods, Sophia walked as a child. Here she dreamed of better life.
Here began the chain of events that led to me losing everything. And here your father will lose you. He walked among trees until finding what he sought—a mighty pine with spreading branches, under which ground was dry, sheltered.
Dennis knelt and placed the bundle with child under the pine. Adjusted the blanket, looked one last time at the sleeping baby. For a moment his hand trembled, as if part of his mind, not yet consumed by madness, tried to reach, show the monstrosity of what was happening.
But it lasted only a second. «Goodbye, little William!» He turned and headed back to the car with quick steps. Got behind the wheel, started the engine, drove onto the road.
Without looking back, without allowing himself to think of consequences. Just smiled strange, empty smile, as if he’d done important work, completed a mission, restored justice to the world. At that same time in the forest, a small figure in faded cotton dress hid behind an old tree trunk, silently watching the strange scene.
The girl moments ago searched for her missing toys, unaware she’d find something far more significant. Something that would change not just her fate, but fates of many linked by past’s thin threads. The circle closed, returning the story to its beginning.
The paramedic’s house stood at town’s other end. New, with antenna on roof, the only one with phone. Timothy now oversaw the whole town’s health.
The same Timothy who’d tried to save Sophia during birth, and since carried that burden of failed savior. He opened the door after third knock.
— Aunt Eve?
He surprised, letting the woman into the warm house.
— Something happened? Your phone’s needed,
She said simply.
— Need to dial city number.
Timothy nodded, no questions.
Set the phone before her, stepped to wall, discreetly turning back. Evelyn placed the worn notebook before her, found the page, looked long at neatly written number. Then deep sighed and began dialing.
Each click of phone dial like heartbeat. One, two, three. Ringing in her ears.
Seven, eight. Hands shook. Long tones sliced silence like blade through fabric.
Abernathy speaking. Voice deep, commanding. Such that immediately felt.
Person used to being listened to. Evelyn for a moment lost speech. Who was she talking to? Man who seduced her daughter and left? Father of her granddaughter who’d never known of her existence? Father of the tiny boy her Emily brought? Hello? Irritation in voice.
Victor? She finally forced out. Victor Abernathy? Pause. Tense, ringing.
Yes, it’s me. Who’s speaking? My name’s Evelyn. Evelyn Stephens. I. She faltered, seeking words to explain the situation’s complexity.
I’m Sophia’s mother. That very Sophia you knew once. Silence on other end so absolute Evelyn heard only her own breathing.
Then. What do you need? Cold in voice, wariness. I think I have your child, she said straight, no preambles.
To a woman her age, who’d endured death of husband and daughter, no point circling. Boy? About three months. In locket your photo and letters A and V. Sound of sharp inhale, like person punched in gut.
William? Name sounded like prayer and curse at once. You? How did he end up with you? My granddaughter found him in forest. Under pine.
Wrapped in blanket. Is he alive? Such fear in voice, such despair, that Evelyn for a moment felt something like compassion for this stranger city man. Alive.
Healthy. Hungry only. Our cow gives plenty milk, but heavy for such tot.
I. Voice broke. I’ll come right now. She hung up, not waiting answer.
Heart pounded like young’s, palms sweated. All said. Now just wait.
Victor stood by phone, thunderstruck. Handset in hand seemed unbearable. Catherine, his wife, ran into office, hearing his choked cry.
What? What happened? William. He could only say. They’ve found him.
Catherine swayed, grabbed door jamb. For nearly day since son’s disappearance, she’d become a shadow, thinned, with huge dark circles under eyes, face with such despair it hurt to look. Where? She whispered.
He’s… Alive. He hurried to assure, catching her, helping to chair.
Found in forest. Some woman called. Said he has my locket, family heirloom, silver locket with initials A and V, passed in their family from father to son.
Victor put it on William day of baptism, just two weeks ago. I’ll go now. He was already pulling on coat.
Immediately. I’m with you. Catherine rose, swaying.
No. He gently but firmly sat her back. You’re barely standing.
I’ll bring him, promise. And you… Prepare everything here. Call doctor.
William might need help. She didn’t argue. Too exhausted physically and mentally.
Just tightly squeezed her husband’s hand. Bring our boy. Whatever happens, bring him.
Rushing out house, Victor froze moment, not knowing where to run. His own car in repair, taxi too slow to remote town. Then it hit him.
In prosecutor’s office, where he’d interned once, connections remained. One call. And 15 minutes later, police Jeep with siren and two grim officers inside pulled up to his house.
Where to, Mr. Abernathy? Asked senior, elderly captain with tired face. To Oak Hollow town. Here.
He handed paper with written address. My son’s there. Captain whistled, turned on siren, and Jeep took off, splashing puddles on asphalt.
Evelyn returned home, feeling strange lightness. As if huge stone she’d carried on heart all these years suddenly cracked and crumbled to dust. Truth coming to light.
Let be what will be. Emily sat on floor, rocking infant. Before her a bowl with water and rag twisted into makeshift nipple.
Girl looked at baby with such tenderness, such adoration, that Evelyn’s heart clenched.
— You’re doing good,
She said, sitting nearby.
— You’re a natural nanny.
— He’s so good,
Emily answered, not taking eyes off baby.
— Doesn’t cry at all when I’m with him. Grandma, can we keep him.
Evelyn sighed. How to explain to child?
— No, dear. He has mom and dad.
They’re looking for him, worrying. Soon come to take him. Emily’s face clouded.
Evelyn looked at granddaughter, pondering how much to tell her right now. Seven-year-old girl, but eyes adult, understanding. Eyes so like eyes of that very man whose son now lay in her arms.
— You know, Emmy,
She said cautiously,
— sometimes life arranges such meetings you can’t imagine. And I think this man, he’s not bad. No, not bad.
They sat like that another few hours. Evelyn knitted. Needles flashed in hands, creating warm wool pattern.
Emily quietly told baby fairy tales. About gingerbread man, speckled hen, little red riding hood, recalling those heard from grandma and kindergarten she attended before school. Then yard heard engine roar, car doors slammed, male voices.
Emily started, instinctively hugging child closer.
— Grandma?
— Quiet, dear. Evelyn rose, setting aside knitting.
— Seems they’ve arrived for the baby. Knock at door sharp, impatient. Evelyn went to open, feeling granddaughter’s tense gaze on back.
On threshold tall man in expensive city coat, behind him two in police uniform.
— Evelyn? Evelyn Stephens?
He asked, voice same as on phone, deep, commanding, but now trembling with excitement.
— Yes,
She nodded.
— Come in. Victor crossed threshold, scanned modest but clean room. His gaze immediately found child in girl’s arms sitting by stove.
— William. He rushed to son, knelt before him. Emily shrank back, clutching baby tighter.
Victor froze, looking at her pleadingly.
— Please. This is my son.
Evelyn approached granddaughter, placed hand on her shoulder.
— Give him, Emmy. It’s really his dad.
Girl slowly, with obvious regret, extended bundle with child. Victor gently, with awe, took son, pressed to chest. Tears streamed down his cheeks.
He didn’t try to hide or wipe them.
— Alive. Unharmed.
He whispered, covering tiny face with kisses.
— My boy. My son.
And precisely then, raising eyes from child, he truly saw girl who’d held him. Saw and froze, thunderstruck. Saw delicate face with high cheekbones.
Light brown hair braided. Straight nose with slight hump. And main—eyes.
Dark, with particular slant, deeply in-dented paper, with same spark of challenge and stubbornness he saw in mirror every morning. Eyes of his father. Eyes of his grandfather.
Eyes of all Abernathys, whose portraits hung in parental home.
— Who? Who is this girl?
His voice broke. Evelyn sighed heavily.
Moment of truth arrived.
— My granddaughter. Emily.
Sophia’s daughter. Victor looked at child, unblinking. Goosebumps ran down his spine, every hair stood on end.
He seemed looking into past and future at once.
— How old is she?
He asked, though already knew answer.
— Seven.
Evelyn answered quietly. Turned in April. Sophia died in childbirth.
Room filled with ringing silence. Even baby, as if sensing moment’s importance, made no sound. Only clock ticked on wall, measured, inexorable, counting seconds of new life beginning for all present.
Victor looked at girl who could be, who he felt with all his being was his daughter. Looked and couldn’t tear gaze away.
— Emily.
He tasted the name.
— Hope. Girl nodded, warily looking at stranger with her baby in arms.
Something in his face, his eyes, seemed strangely familiar, like reflection in mirror but distorted, adult, different.
— I. Victor tried to speak, but throat caught.
He cleared throat and started again.
— You took such good care of William. Thank you.
— He’s good. Emily answered simply. And beautiful.
Like a live doll. I’d like to keep him, but grandma said no. Victor shifted gaze to Evelyn.
— We need to talk. Alone. Old woman nodded.
— Emmy, go to Anna Markham, get goat milk from her for Billy. Girl rose reluctantly, threw last glance at baby and left. As soon as door closed behind her.
When they were alone, Evelyn and Victor looked long at each other. Old rural woman and successful city man. Seemed abyss between them, but in fact they were linked by something greater than social differences, two lives—Emily’s and William’s.
— Tell me everything,
Victor quietly requested.
— All you know about Sophia after she left city. And about Emily.
— And you tell me who left your son in forest,
Evelyn countered.
— And why.
Conversation ahead long.
And fateful for them all. Catherine stepped on rural soil, mud immediately caking her city shoes. She couldn’t wait husband’s return with son, so took taxi to this distant town, following him.
— Billy,
She whispered, taking child from husband’s hands. Pressed to breast, inhaled familiar smell.
— My little one.
And only when first wave of happiness ebbed, Catherine noticed husband’s gaze. Strange, lost, directed past her, to porch of rural house where stood girl about seven.
— Cathy,
As if hard for him to speak.
— There’s something we need to talk about. And she learned. About girl from past, Sophia, brief romance, pregnancy, letter Victor received soon after her departure to town.
She wrote miscarriage happened. Victor’s voice trembled. Asked not to come, not to search.
Said she wants new life. Without me. And I? I believed.
Resigned. Decided it’s fate. Catherine saw how this lie tormented him even now, years later.
Deceit that stole from him daughter, chance to know her from first days, be real father.
— And then I learned she married a local guy,
Victor continued.
— I thought… I convinced myself she just used me, and when pregnancy ended, returned to the one she truly loved.
— And that letter?
Evelyn asked quietly.
— You kept it?
Victor shook head.
Burned it. In a drunken night, after learning of her marriage. Wanted to throw her out of my life.
Start over. Catherine looked at girl, light brown-haired, with dark eyes, so elusively like her husband’s that impossible to deny obvious. Something compressed inside, bitter, heavy as stone.
Jealousy? Offense? Fear? You’re sure? She asked quietly, looking not at husband, but child.
— Sure she’s… Yours? We’ll do test if you want.
He answered just as quietly.
— But I know. Feel it.
Look at her, Cathy. And she looked. At girl’s face, too serious for age.
At eyes. Same eyes as Victor’s, as their William’s. At hands, neatly folded on apron of simple dress.
Hands of girl early learned to care for herself.
— What now?
Catherine asked, and heard bitterness in own voice she couldn’t hold.
— I don’t know.
Victor answered honestly.
— But I can’t just leave and forget. Can’t.
This… This is my daughter. Last words he said with such mix of pride, disbelief, pain, that Catherine involuntarily stepped closer, touched his shoulder.
— I understand.
And she did understand. Knew her husband well enough to imagine what he felt. Victor was good man.
Honest to pedantry, loyal to foolishness, reliable as rock. Man for whom «duty» wasn’t empty sound.
In cramped room, smelling of dried herbs and warmed milk, they sat strange, awkward company.
Evelyn and Emily one side of table. Victor and Catherine with baby, other.
— I want you to move to city,
Victor said without preamble.
Just as used to deciding matters. I have big house. Emily will go to good school.
You’ll have all needed. Evelyn was silent, looking at own hands, knobby, with protruding veins, roughened from decades heavy labor. Hands used to milking cow, weeding beds, stoking stove.
— I’m old for moves,
She said finally.
— My roots here.
Husband’s grave. Daughter’s grave. Stephen’s.
My whole life here. Victor didn’t expect refusal. He was used to money and position opening any doors.
That you can just offer better conditions, and people rejoice. But. Emily.
She should have chance. He faltered, seeking words.
— It’s different life.
More opportunities. Better education. Knowing her father.
— Completed for him Evelyn, and Victor nodded gratefully. Evelyn looked at granddaughter, sitting nearby with absent look, as if all happening unrelated to her. But old woman knew that look.
So looked Sophia once. When absorbing everything, remembering, accumulating inside like spring waters.
— Emily should decide herself,
Evelyn said.
— She’s small, but not dumb. She’ll manage. All looked at girl, now center of attention.
Emily scanned adults’ faces, lingering on unfamiliar man who, per grandma, was her real father. Not the one whose grave they visited twice yearly, on birthday and memorial day. But another, unfamiliar, city, elegant.
She felt nothing special looking at him. No sudden surge of love, no recognition, not even simple curiosity. Only strange emptiness, as if place in heart for father long taken by another.
— I’ll stay with grandma,
She said finally. Simply, calmly, as about something long decided.
— Here’s my home.
Here my friends. Victor couldn’t hide disappointment. Hope refused him.
Better life. All he could give. Just like her mother once chose return to this backwater, instead waiting him.
— But you can come,
Emily added, and for first time something childish, uncertain slipped in her voice.
— If you want.
Ice broke.
Victor looked at daughter. Suddenly she became just child, not embodiment of his guilt and belated responsibility. Not symbol of lost possibilities, not ghost of that other life that could have been, if not lie separating him from Sophia.
— Of course I want,
He said quietly.
— Very much. I… I’ve missed too much time already.
Catherine watched this exchange with complex feeling. On one hand, glad girl refused move. Meant no strange child in their home, no constant reminder of husband’s past life.
On other, saw pain in Victor’s eyes, and it caused her own suffering.
— Maybe compromise?
Catherine suggested, surprising own words.
— You stay living here, but we… We’ll help.
Financially. And Victor will come. Regularly.
And on vacations, if you want… She addressed Emily directly.
— You could visit us. See the city.
Evelyn looked attentively at woman her suddenly acquired son-in-law’s. Young, groomed, with that particular confidence look of women never known real deprivations. And yet, something in her.
Strength. Independence. Dignity.
— Good plan,
Old woman nodded. Reasonable. Victor shifted gaze from wife to daughter, daughter to mother-in-law.
— Just like that?
All decided. So many years hidden secrets, pain, losses. And here, one day, one table, all falls into place.
— No, of course. He understood scars remain. Deceit depriving him daughter, daughter father, won’t vanish without trace.
— But there’s more,
He said, pulling wallet.
— I’ll formalize paternity. Officially.
Emily should have right to inheritance, my support, my name. This not up for discussion. I once believed lie and lost chance be her father from start.
Won’t make that mistake again. Evelyn nodded again, as if expecting nothing else. Emily looked with some confusion.
She didn’t quite understand what discussed, but felt it something important and serious.
— Good,
Catherine said, and Victor gratefully squeezed wife’s hand. He knew how much that agreement cost her.
How much she gave, accepting his past with all consequences. William, as if feeling tension eased, cooed in mother’s arms. Emily looked at baby with interest.
— Can I hold him? One more time? Catherine hesitated, but extended son to girl.
— Support head. Like this. Right.
Emily took child with seriousness of surgeon performing complex operation. William opened eyes, dark like father’s, like Emily’s own, and stared at her with infant curiosity.
— Hi, brother,
Emily said, and as if something clicked in room, like details of complex mechanism fell into place. Brother and sister. Father and daughter.
Grandmother and son-in-law. Words gained flesh, connections became real. From chaos of past mistakes, losses, unfulfilled hopes, something new was born.
Family, strange, incomplete, scattered between city and town, but family still. Justice resembled wounded bird, awkward but persistent in striving to fly again. City police worked without closing eyes.
Captain Sokolov, same who drove Victor to town, personally led investigation. Thread by thread, clue by clue. Web indeed entwined name Dennis Craven.
First indirect suspicions. Too often seen near Abernathys’ house days before kidnapping. Then witness suddenly recalling man with flower bouquet by stroller.
And finally, recording from bank camera opposite park, fuzzy but discernible. Dennis arrested in his apartment, dusty, cluttered, reeking alcohol and hopelessness. He didn’t resist, looked almost relieved, as if waiting arrest as deliverance from burden become unbearable.
At interrogation confessed immediately, without bargaining, without softening guilt. Voice sounded dull, as from well. I didn’t want to harm child.
Just scare Victor. So he’d feel same as me. Emptiness. Loss.
Same. Trial short. Psychiatric exam deemed Dennis sane but with borderline personality disorder signs.
Five years imprisonment. Sentence seemed strangely mild to Victor for what he’d endured, thinking son dead. But lawyer in him understood, law judges not inflicted sufferings, only committed acts.
Dennis heard sentence with absent look, as if about someone else. Only when led from courtroom, he turned to Victor sitting first row.
— You’re guilty too,
He said quietly, without malice, almost thoughtfully.
— Too. Then prison began. Gray days merging into continuous stream monotonous existence.
Metal bowls. Guards smelling tobacco and indifference. Cellmates keeping distance from that nut who steals infants.
Dennis released six months early for good behavior. Released into different world, rapidly changing, with new values, technologies, realities. Without money, home, friends.
City accepted him indifferently, as accepts all lost children, without joy, disgust, just allowing lose in its multitude. Dennis scraped by odd jobs, too low for medical education, but only accessible to ex-con.
Slept in bug-ridden dorms, cheap hostels, sometimes stations if money totally short. Drank, not binging but regularly, as if alcohol sole way blunt awareness how low fallen.
Face once attractive, marked by intellect, now coarsened, covered net fine wrinkles, acquired that special gray shade only homeless and mentally ill have. Eyes lost shine, sunk deep in sockets.