Chapter 4 - The Voice in the Wall
Every instinct screamed at Elena to stay by the locked door, to wait for Julian as he had instructed. But the sound of that mournful weeping tugged at something ancient and primal inside her chest. Her feet moved on their own, carrying her across the Persian rug toward the open gap in the bookshelf.
She pushed the panel wider. The scent of ozone, sterile antiseptic, and damp earth poured into the warm study. It was completely unlike the rest of the luxurious estate. Stepping onto the cold metal grating of the hidden corridor, Elena wrapped her arms around herself, shivering in her thin cotton uniform.
""Hello?"" she whispered softly, her voice barely carrying over the hum of whatever machinery was running beneath the floorboards.
The weeping stopped abruptly.
Elena crept further down the narrow passage. After twenty yards, the metal corridor opened into a subterranean chamber fitted with modern medical monitors and floor-to-ceiling glass partitions. Inside the partitioned room sat an elderly woman with silver hair flowing past her frail shoulders, dressed in a soft white nightgown. She was hooked up to an intravenous drip, staring blankly out at the glass wall.
Elena froze. The face was weathered by decades of isolation and illness, but the bone structure, the shape of the jawline—it was the woman from the portrait on Julian’s desk.
""Julian?"" the woman rasped, her voice dry and brittle like autumn leaves. She turned her head slowly, her pale eyes squinting against the dim red light. ""Did you bring the medicine, my boy?""
""I... I'm not Julian,"" Elena stammered, stepping into the light.
The woman’s breath caught in her throat. She gripped the edge of her mattress, dragging herself forward with sudden, desperate strength. She pressed her withered palm against the glass, her eyes widening in profound disbelief as they landed on the pendant hanging against Elena’s chest.
""Clara..."" the woman sobbed, tears cutting tracks through the dust on her cheeks. ""Clara, you came back for me.""
""My mother's name was Clara,"" Elena whispered, her voice trembling violently. ""Who are you? Why are you locked down here?""
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Before the woman could answer, heavy footsteps echoed from the top of the passage behind Elena. The iron door banged shut.
""She is my mother,"" Julian’s voice cut through the darkness, heavy with fury and devastating sorrow. ""And she was supposed to have burned alive twenty years ago.""
