The next morning, Maya woke up earlier than usual. She hadn't slept much. The man's words kept echoing in her head—"Artists like her tend to leave trails worth following."
She didn't like the way he said trails.
Something inside her stirred. A memory. A room she hadn't entered in years.
She crossed the hallway to the attic—cold, dusty, and silent. Her aunt had kept the door locked for a long time, but after Maya moved in, she'd handed her the key without saying much.
Maya hadn't used it—until now.
---
The attic smelled of old paper and forgotten years. She shuffled through boxes labeled "Mom's things." It was strange how grief worked—how sometimes you avoid memories not because they hurt, but because you're afraid they'll wake up something inside you.
Finally, tucked beneath a faded sketchbook, she found it: a metal lockbox.
Her mother's initials were etched on the lid.
She hesitated—then opened it.
Inside were bundles of letters tied with ribbon. And beneath them, a small USB drive with no label.
Maya pulled out the top letter. The handwriting was unmistakable—delicate, slanted, her mother's.
> "To my Maya,
If you're reading this, you're braver than I ever was.
There's more to our story than I had time to tell you…"
---
She didn't read the rest right away. Her heart was pounding. Tears welled up—not from pain, but from something deeper.
Truth was close.
She slid the USB into her laptop. It loaded one file: a video. She clicked it, hands shaking.
The screen flickered, then showed her mother, sitting in their old kitchen, eyes tired but full of love.
> "Maya… baby girl, if this ever finds you, promise me you won't run. There are things I kept from you. About me. About your father. And about a man named Sebastian Cole…"
Maya froze.
Sebastian Cole.
The man at the museum.
---
She slammed the laptop shut, breath caught in her throat.
> "You wanted answers," she whispered. "Now you've got them."