Behind the Curtain

The elevator doors slid open onto a world so green and vast that for a moment, even Andy could not make sense of it. The Hollow Garden was not just a place; it was a world in the island, a whole valley of sun and air and wild color set deep beneath the surface. The light was everywhere and nowhere—golden, diffuse, but with no visible sun—and the meadow stretched for what looked like miles before narrowing at a stand of low, white cottages. The breeze carried the sweetness of flowers and a low, warm hum of living things.

Katherine stepped out first, bare feet to the grass. She stilled on the threshold, head up, body alert as if catching a scent. Andy saw her chest rise and fall, then the long arc as she turned slowly, trying to map the dimensions with her eyes alone. For a woman who’d been hung on a wall for fourteen years, the riot of openness was clearly overwhelming. Her arms came up, as if she might gather it in; she went nearly cross-eyed watching a butterfly pass within inches of her nose, then blinked and let her hands fall.

Andy stepped out behind her, with Myra and both Laura in close orbit. Riley emerged last, not even trying to hide the way she tracked everything at once—her gaze went to the cottages, the paths, the trees, as if she was searching for the trick behind the illusion.

Waiting at the edge of the meadow were two figures. Dinah, upright and solid as ever, wore a pale linen dress and a cardigan, arms folded but the posture entirely open. Next to her was Eden—impossibly beautiful, her face lit up in a way Andy hadn’t seen during his last visit.

Dinah grinned and waved the group forward. “You made good time,” she said, eyes flicking from Andy to Myra to both Laura. “And you brought everyone.”

Katherine just stood and let the others catch up. Dinah glanced at her, did a double-take, and then barked a laugh. “Well I’ll be damned. It’s really you. Standing in a field, not stuck in a frame.” She turned to Andy, and added, “This is very weird. I like it.”

Eden didn’t say anything. She was too busy staring at Katherine, her jaw slack, the smooth rounds of her shoulders trembling just slightly. Then Katherine saw her—really saw her—and crossed the distance between them without hesitation, pulling Eden in with both arms, tucking her sister’s head under her chin. Eden pressed close and hooked one leg around Katherine’s calf, the only anchor she had, and held on. For a moment, both women just clung to each other, both manes of black hair braided together in the sun, their bodies shaking with a kind of laughter that bled into silent, unguarded sobbing. As if everyone else had simply ceased to exist, they started walking together, moving slow but with the gravitational certainty of two people who’d waited a lifetime for the chance. Andy had to look away, not because he minded the emotion, but because it was too much to hold all at once.

Dinah watched them, visibly trying not to cry herself, then cleared her throat and turned to the others. “All right, come on. Let’s give them some privacy. You know the way, right? I have to get back to some of the patients.”

The cottage was at the far edge of the meadow. It looked almost ordinary: whitewashed, a little stoop out front, a garden bed with a riot of herbs, some flowers. There was a rocking chair on the porch. The air was cool and humid, filled with the scent of sage and something sweeter—jasmine, maybe, or vanilla grass.

Marie was waiting outside the door. She wore a light gray skirt and a blue blouse, her hair pulled back in a tight, low knot. When she saw the group approach, she rose from the step, took three fast strides, and folded Myra into a hug that lifted her off her feet. Myra’s two tails wrapped tight around her mother, then pressed in close, as if afraid to let go.

Marie whispered something into Myra’s ear, her hands not releasing even as they broke apart. The words were too soft to hear, but Myra nodded and pressed her cheek to her mother’s collarbone for a long second before letting go.

Marie greeted Andy with a smile and a careful handshake, as if wary she might shatter the moment with too much ****. She hugged Laura, then turned to Riley. Her face changed—not warmer, not softer, but more attentive, as if she recognized something in Riley that needed special handling.

“It’s good to see you again, Riley,” Marie said, her voice low. “Thank you for coming.”

Riley looked at her, then away, her body taut as a bow. “You're Myra's mother. You were in the garden.” Her tone was neutral, but her hands were clenched on her arms.

Marie nodded. “I am. I asked you to visit. I’m glad you did.” She looked at Andy, then both Laura, then Myra, as if taking inventory of the emotional weather in the room.

Then she drew Laura aside, one hand on Laura’s arm. Both Lauras followed, bodies close together, faces set. Marie spoke very quietly to her, just for a few seconds, and Andy saw Laura’s bodies both go rigid, like someone had plugged them into a live wire. He watched as Marie’s hand slid down, squeezed Laura’s elbow, then let go. Both Laura nodded, silent, then merged and turned to the rest of the group.

Marie took a deep breath, then opened the door.

The cottage’s interior was simple. One large room, a braided rug on the floor, two faded armchairs by the window. There was a single woman in the far chair, rocking slowly, hands folded in her lap. She was slender, her hair long and dark, her dress pale and loose. She stared out the window, her lips moving in a slow, silent loop.

The moment Laura saw her, she moved, no hesitation, no calculation. She crossed the room and sank to her knees in front of the rocking chair, taking a hand. Laura started talking, softly at first, but with growing ****. “Mom, I’m here. We’re here. I’m not gone. I’m back, like I promised. I love you. I’m not leaving.”

Sarah’s lips moved, not with words, but a slow, silent rehearsal. Then, after a few seconds, the voice emerged: thin, but real. “My baby girl, my baby girl, I’m sorry, sweet girl.” The phrase repeated, a loop with no beginning or end. Every third or fourth cycle, the inflection shifted, the pitch rising as if she was trying to modulate the message, to break free of the repetition. Next to him, Andy felt Riley go rigid. She remembered Laura's mother. “What... what happened to her?” She asked.

Andy, eyes fixed on Laura, murmured, “After losing Laura, she had nothing to live for, and Greg... took advantage.” Riley stared, horrified, and her eyes were wet when she looked back at her best friend.

Laura pressed her forehead to Sarah’s thigh, holding her hands tight, her whole body shaking. “Mom, I’m here. We’re here. You don’t have to be sorry. I love you. You can come back now. Please.”

Sarah’s eyes flickered, and Andy could have sworn that for a moment she looked directly at Laura, her gaze clear and full of love and guilt and shame. But then the loop took over again, and the voice continued, softer but no less insistent: “My baby girl, my baby girl, I’m sorry, sweet girl.” The hands in Laura’s grip began to tremble.

Andy stood near the door, not daring to move or speak. He didn't think anyone else had noticed that look. Perhaps he had imagined it. Myra hovered a few steps behind both Laura, her tails fanned wide for balance, ears tracking every shift in the emotional temperature of the room. Riley lingered at the threshold, arms folded around herself, not quite ready to enter.

The silence was deep, not empty but charged. Marie broke it, her voice calm but brittle: “Some days are better than others. I think she knows you’re here. That’s better than last week.” Marie took a spot against the wall, arms crossed, head bowed.

Andy watched Laura work, using her whole self to try and pierce the membrane of her mother’s memory. She whispered, she pleaded, she told stories—about Andy, about their old house, about the day they rescued a squirrel from the storm drain, about the time they went to the planetarium together and made wishes on every star.

When this didn’t crack the surface, Laura said, “You don’t have to be sorry, Mom. You did everything right. I love you so much. Please, I just want you to come back.” The words weren’t a sob, but they vibrated with the effort not to be one. Laura looked up at Sarah, and for a moment, mother and daughter looked so similar—same cast of the eyes, same mouth, same cheekbones, same stubborn set to the chin.

The next time Sarah’s loop cycled, it changed, just a little. The phrase became: “My baby girl, my baby girl, I love you, sweet girl.” There was no “sorry.” Just love. It held for one cycle, then the old pattern snapped back, but the change lingered, a ghost in the signal.

Laura’s face broke at once. Tears ran down her cheeks, but the hands stayed strong, holding tight to Sarah’s, as if the sheer **** of grip could bring her back.

Andy glanced at Myra. She was standing perfectly still, her face as blank as Andy had ever seen it, but the tips of her tails shuddered with every word spoken in the room. Marie, too, had gone still, her eyes closed, her mouth twisted in a silent prayer or plea.

Riley watched from the threshold, her arms crossed, her whole posture hunched as if braced for a blow.

Laura spoke again. “Mom, we saw Kelly,” she said, “Your little sister. She’s alive. She misses you.” Laura’s voice cracked.

Sarah’s hands flinched in Laura’s grip. She turned her head, the rocking stopped for the first time since they’d entered.

Marie, against the wall, made a soft, choked sound and turned her face away. “Kelly?” she said, the word thin as a wire. “Kelly is still—” Andy stepped closer, just enough to put a hand on her shoulder. She didn’t look at him, but she leaned into the touch.

“She’s alive,” Andy said. “She’s got a daughter now. Her name is Shannon.”

Laura kept going. “Grandpa and Grandma are alive, too. They still live in Harvey. They asked about you. They still miss you so much. Grandpa called your name.”

Sarah’s mouth trembled. Her lips formed words, but they didn’t leave her throat. The loop tried to come back—“My baby girl, my baby girl.” Then silence, for a long, electric second.

Andy felt the whole room tilt. Myra was crying, openly, her face buried in her hands, tails trembling behind her, clinging to her mother. Riley was no longer crossed-arms; she stood braced against the wall, both hands flat to the paint, as if holding herself up. Marie was quietly sobbing into Myra's shoulder.

Laura, weeping, said, “You can come back, Mom. You don’t have to be stuck anymore. We love you. I’m so sorry for what I told you back then. I’m so sorry. I love you, Mom, I really do. I just want you to come back.”

Sarah’s head bowed. Her hands squeezed Laura’s so tight the knuckles went white. The loop started again, but it was softer now, uncertain: “My baby girl, I’m sorry, sweet girl.” It faded, then stopped. Sarah’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. Her eyes glistened with tears. “Laura?” she said.

The effect was like a stone thrown into a pool: every person in the room snapped to attention. Laura’s face broke, tears streaming, but the hands on Sarah never let go. Andy felt the word bounce in his own chest, a kind of ache and relief at once.

Marie, back turned, nearly dropped to her knees. Andy held her up. Riley covered her mouth, but the sound that escaped was a full, unedited sob.

Myra just leaned forward, her forehead pressed to the back of Laura’s shoulder, the two of them shaking in sync.

Sarah’s mouth worked a few times, as if trying to assemble a full sentence. At last, she said, “My baby girl, I love you, sweet girl.” The words were thin, the loop had returned. But something had changed.

Laura didn’t speak. She just held her mother’s hands and let the tears fall.

Andy held Marie up, and together with Myra and Riley, they watched the world bend.

For the first time in sixteen years, a mother had called her daughter by name.

They left the cottage in a slow, fractured parade. Nobody spoke for a long while, not even to ask where they were going next. The sun had shifted; the meadow was brighter, and the shadows cast by the trees were sharp and edged, but the world felt thinner, as if all the air had been used up inside Sarah’s tiny room and the rest of the Garden was just a hollow copy.

Marie walked beside Riley, matching her pace but not pushing, her hands clasped behind her back. Both Laura drifted a few paces ahead, silent and brittle, the way people sometimes walked after funerals. Myra lingered at Andy’s side, her tails low, her ears aimed mostly at Riley.

Andy watched the way Riley moved, the whole of her body bent around the task of keeping it together. It wasn’t just her face—every inch of her posture, every muscle in her jaw, every flex of her hands as they opened and closed on the sleeves of her jacket. She didn’t look at anyone. Her steps were even, but a little too forceful, as if the ground was personal.

When the next cottage appeared at the edge of the meadow, nobody needed to say it was their destination. It was different from the others—not in color or style, but in a subtle change of architecture: the door was wider, the windows placed higher, and a small ramp led to the porch instead of steps. Marie veered toward it, but when she reached the threshold, she stopped and turned to Riley.

For a few seconds, the two of them just stood in the sun. Then Marie said, very quietly, “You don’t have to go in if you don’t want to. But she’s waiting for you.”

Riley’s jaw worked, but the words didn’t follow. She managed a nod, then squared her shoulders and stepped inside.

The interior was as spare as Sarah’s, but the main room had been cleared of all but two heavy chairs, placed side by side facing a wall covered by a thick, quilted curtain. There was a seam at its center; it looked like it could slide open with a touch, but for now, it was closed. The light was indirect, blue-shaded by the filtered window. Andy somehow instinctively knew the setup: a privacy partition, one-way. Riley’s side was opaque; whatever or whoever was behind the partition could see out, but not in. He didn't stop and wonder how he knew.

Andy took a spot by the door. Laura, split again now, settled on a bench along the far wall, flanking Myra, who sat at the end, tails curled around her feet. Both women were still shaking, and Myra was holding Laura's hands. Marie followed Riley to the chairs and sat, not touching her but angled toward her, ready to help if Riley needed it.

There was a long silence. Then, from the other side of the partition, a voice spoke:

“Riley?”

It was low, a little rough. It was a voice used to talking softly, or only when it mattered. Riley didn’t move. Her hands were folded in her lap, fingers pressed together so tight the knuckles went white.

The voice tried again. “You look strong,” it said. “I always thought you would be.”

Riley’s laugh was small and bitter. “You can’t see me,” she said.

A pause, then the voice said, softly, “I can. The curtain is only one way. It’s how I asked for it.”

This did something. Riley shifted in the chair, stared at the partition as if she could burn a hole through it.

The voice—Sandra—said, “You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. But I would like to talk to you, if that’s all right.”

Riley was silent for so long that Andy thought she might leave. But then, in a voice so flat it barely counted as sound, she said, “What do you want?”

Sandra breathed out. The exhale was loud enough to carry through the partition. “To see you,” she said. “To know you made it. That’s all I’ve wanted, since the day they took you.”

Riley snorted, the sound almost involuntary. “You could have tried harder,” she said, and Andy heard every old wound in her body rush to the surface.

Sandra didn’t answer right away. Then, her voice cracking, she said, “He wouldn’t let me. Greg wouldn’t let me. He… didn’t want me to keep you. He said it was a mistake. Marie and the others tried, but nobody could stop him. He was the Master.”

Riley said nothing.

Sandra went on, voice steadier now: “I didn’t want to let you go. I didn’t want to leave you alone, but it was the only way to keep you safe. If I’d refused, he would have made it worse for you. He said so. I believed him.” A pause. “I was afraid, Riley. I’m sorry.”

Riley’s whole body was shaking. Andy saw it in her knees, in the way her jaw jumped every time she bit down a word. “How did you even know I was here?” she asked.

Sandra said, “Laura, Andy and Marie told me. I hoped you would come. I asked for the curtain because I… didn’t want you to see me like this, not until you were ready.”

Riley’s hands fell to her knees, open and empty. For the first time, Andy realized she was crying. “You didn’t want me to see you as a dog,” she said. It wasn’t cruel, not even a little. “You didn’t want me to know what happened to you.”

Sandra’s voice was careful, not quite ashamed, but something near it. “I wanted to protect you. Even if it was too late for me. I wanted to give you at least one thing you could keep and not hate.” There was a silence. Then Sandra said, “Riley, do you remember the bunny?”

Riley went still, so still that Marie leaned over, just a fraction, ready to catch her if she swayed. “What bunny?” Riley said, but the words broke before they finished.

“There was a toy, a lovey,” Sandra said, “A gray bunny, soft, with a blue and gold blanket. I tucked it into your blanket the day you were left at the nursery.” Her voice dropped, cracked. “I couldn’t do the sewing myself, but I asked Marie to help me. She stitched a message inside the seam. It says, ‘My baby, Riley.’ I made them spell it out. I wanted you to have a name. I wanted you to have something from me.” A sob. “The only thing I could give you. I knew you would be brave.”

There was a long silence after Sandra finished her sentence. The world outside the cottage seemed to fall away, and all the air in the room was replaced by the sound of two people breathing—one on each side of a curtain.

Riley stared at the partition, her arms fallen away from her chest, hands open and flat on her thighs. Andy could see her jaw flexing, the tension running all the way up her neck. Her eyes were red but dry, and her body was motionless except for the trembling of her fingers, which she did not seem to notice.

Sandra’s voice was careful. “I didn’t know if it ever got to you. I used to ask Marie to check, whenever she was allowed away from the shack. For a long time, she wasn’t allowed. But I asked anyway.”

Riley didn’t answer. She leaned forward in the chair, elbows on knees, her posture broadcast at maximum volume: If you say the wrong thing, I will leave and never come back.

Sandra said, voice breaking, “I never meant for you to grow up without a mother. I wanted you to have a chance at something real, somewhere. I never thought you’d have to do it alone.” A pause, then, more softly: “I thought you’d be adopted. That you’d have a home. I wanted to believe that.”

Riley sat with it, not moving. “I did have a home,” she said, voice low. “It just didn’t last.”

There was a noise from behind the partition—not quite a whimper, not quite a sigh. “I’m sorry,” Sandra said. “I wanted more for you.”

Riley nodded, but did not look away from the curtain. Sandra asked, “Was it a good one? For a while, at least?”

Riley inhaled, deep and shaky, and when she spoke, her words came out on the exhale: “It was fine. Better than most. They were good people, even when things got bad.” Her hands flexed on her knees, then went still again. “I didn’t realize my real mom had given me my name until I was twelve, and they told me I was adopted.”

From the other side, Sandra said, “I wanted you to have a name, Riley. I made them spell it out. I wanted you to have something that was just yours.”

The silence ballooned again. The only thing that kept the moment from breaking was the faint, steady hum of the Hollow Garden—wind in the grass, the electric flicker of unseen bugs, the sound of a place so alive it didn’t even register its own abundance.

Riley opened her mouth, then closed it, and with a visible effort, she said, “I still have it, you know.”

Sandra sounded confused: “The bunny?”

Riley nodded. “It’s in a box. I still have it.” She looked down at her hands. “When I found out I was adopted, my parents told me it had come with me from the nursery. That whoever left me there had wanted me to keep it.” Her jaw tightened, then released. “So I did. Even after I ran. Even when I didn’t have much else.” A pause. “When my son was about to be born, I got it out again. I wanted him to have it. So he’d have a story I never got to finish.”

There was a hitch in Sandra’s breath. “You have a son?”

“Yeah,” Riley said. “His name was John. After his dad.” She looked at her hands, still splayed on her knees, then up at the partition. Her eyes glittered. “He died before he could even come home. There was a complication. They said it was nobody’s fault.”

A long, empty space followed. Sandra didn’t speak, and neither did anyone else in the room. Even Myra’s tails, which had been trembling behind her chair, had gone utterly still.

When Sandra finally did speak, her voice was nothing but raw wire. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I wanted you to have everything. I was too weak to fight for it. I thought about you every day. Every single day.” She sounded like she’d run out of voice, but kept going anyway. “I’m sorry I couldn’t give you more than a name and a toy. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there.”

Riley didn’t move for a long time. Andy could see her chest rise and fall, but she wasn’t breathing much. When she finally spoke, her voice was almost empty: “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with any of this.”

Marie reached over and covered Riley’s hands with hers, palms dry and warm. “You don’t have to do anything,” she said, voice even. “It’s enough that you know now. That she knows you made it.”

Riley let herself be touched, but she didn’t look at Marie, or anyone else.

Andy felt something shift then—an almost imperceptible release of tension, as if the world had let out a breath it didn’t realize it was holding. He looked at both of Laura’s bodies, sitting quietly on the bench. They watched Riley with relief—relief that the moment had not broken her entirely.

Riley asked, “What happened to Greg?” Her voice was flat, as if the question was just one more item on a list she needed to cross off.

Marie answered: “The bond that held us to him is gone. When Arabella brought us here, she took Greg with her. We haven’t seen him since. I don’t know if he’s alive. I don’t know if he’s dead. I don’t know if it matters.”

Riley considered this. Then she turned slightly in her chair, enough that Andy could see her whole face in profile. “He wasn’t my dad,” she said, “not in any way that matters, but if he’s the reason my mother ended up like this, I wish I could’ve told him to go fuck himself, just once.”

From behind the partition, there was a short, startled bark of laughter. Sandra said, “You’re stronger than I ever was.”

Riley snorted. “Yeah, well, you set the bar pretty low.” She seemed to realize how hurtful her words would be, and winced, but didn't apologize.

Sandra let the words hang. Then, after a moment, she spoke, and Andy could feel the pain and the cost in those words. “I'm sorry, Riley. I'm sorry I'm not the mother you hoped for. You can go now, if you want.”

Riley didn’t move. “Why won’t you let me see you?” she asked. The words were not a challenge; they were too small, too tired. “Is it really that bad?”

There was a silence, then Sandra said, tightly, “I look like a dog. I can’t walk upright anymore. I lost most of my words for a while, but Arabella gave them back, when the Master left. I don’t want you to see me like this. I don’t want you to think of me as an animal.”

Riley shrugged. “I don’t care. I want to see you.”

Sandra didn’t answer. Instead, there was a sound—hard to interpret at first, then unmistakable: a soft thump, as if someone had pressed their forehead to the other side of the partition. “I can't,” she said. “Not now. Please.”

Riley sat very still for a moment. Then her hand lifted off her knee and reached toward the seam in the partition, where the two panels met. Her fingers stopped an inch from it, hovering. From the other side, Sandra's breathing went quiet, the small held breath of someone waiting to find out whether the one thing she had asked for was about to be taken from her. Riley felt it through the fabric, that stillness, and she looked at her own hand as if it belonged to someone else. She thought about the bunny with the message in the seam, the only choice her mother had ever been allowed to make for her. She lowered her hand back to her knee.

Riley nodded, a single, sharp movement. She looked down at her hands, then back at the curtain. “Fine,” she said. “I can wait.” She was quiet for a moment, then, barely audible: “I’m not going anywhere.”

Neither did anyone else. Andy watched the four women sit, each lost in her own weather system of feeling, none of them in a hurry to move.

After a long while, Riley spoke again. “Are you happy here?” she asked, her voice uncertain. The edge was less.

Sandra said, “It’s not a bad place. Dinah makes sure we’re all okay. Marie visits me. I wish I could come up to the surface, but I can’t.”

“Why?” Riley asked.

Sandra paused, as if not sure how to answer. “The world isn’t built for us anymore. We wouldn’t fit.”

Riley stared at the curtain for a long time. “I never fit,” she said, very softly.

On the other side, there was a muffled sound—almost a whine, but deeper, more like the sound of someone bracing themselves against a memory. Then, in a voice so low Andy barely heard it, Sandra said, “You always fit, Riley. You just needed the right place.”

Riley didn’t respond. She just sat, eyes fixed on the partition, her hands slowly relaxing under Marie’s. Marie squeezed them, once, then let go.

The quiet was absolute now, filled only by the slow tick of seconds passing. Nobody rushed the end. Nobody tried to break it with a joke, or a comfort, or a platitude. The room was full, and it would stay that way until everyone was ready.

Andy didn’t know how long they sat there. Five minutes, maybe ten. Eventually, Riley stood, slow and careful, her whole frame radiating the effort it took to keep her body upright. “I want to come back again,” she said. “We're not done, and I'm not leaving. Okay?”

On the other side of the partition, Sandra gave a gasp that was almost an incredulous sob, and Andy's heart cracked, just a little, realizing she had braced for Riley to walk out and never return. “Okay.” Sandra gasped.

Riley turned to Marie, then to Andy, then to both of Laura. She didn’t say anything, but the look on her face was enough. It said: I’m not okay, but I’m still here.

Marie followed her out, gentle and steady, one hand on Riley’s shoulder.

Andy waited until both Laura and Myra had filed out, then he followed, leaving the partition untouched, the woman behind it silent, but present.

As they walked away, Andy glanced back through the window. He saw a shape—a hunched silhouette, head bowed against the curtain, one paw pressed to the fabric as if she could reach through it by will alone.

Riley never looked back. She walked with Marie across the grass, both of them shivering in the thin morning light, neither saying a word.

The walk back across the meadow felt like a **** march, but nobody said anything about it. The sun was higher now, the color of ripe honey, and the grass was slick underfoot where dew had pooled in the shadows. Riley walked ahead, hands jammed into the pockets of her jacket, arms tight to her chest. Her pace was brisk, almost angry, but she didn’t look back or check to see if anyone followed.

Laura’s two bodies flanked her, one on either side, each mirroring the same long stride and forward focus. Neither spoke, but every once in a while both heads would turn—just slightly, like weather vanes catching a new wind—in Riley’s direction, as if recalibrating to her presence. Myra stayed half a pace behind, her fox ears low, tails dragging through the grass, the ends dark with moisture.

Andy brought up the rear, letting the women make the pace. He could have caught up, but he knew better than to wedge himself into the middle of a process he didn’t understand. Besides, Laura was there, and if anyone could get through to Riley, it was her.

They walked in silence for a long time. The cottages fell away behind them, and the meadow opened up, endless green cut only by a few white stones and the faint shimmer of the elevator doors at the far edge of the world.

Halfway to the elevator, Riley stopped abruptly. She stood there, facing the glassy horizon, shoulders hunched up almost to her ears. For a second, nobody moved.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with any of this,” Riley said. She didn’t turn around. Her voice was sharp, but not directed at anyone in particular.

Neither of Laura answered immediately. The silence that followed felt thick, like the air after a thunderclap.

It was Myra who spoke. “You don’t have to do anything with it today,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “Today, you just get to let it sit.”

Riley didn’t move, but Andy could see her left hand fidgeting with the cuff of her jacket, twisting it in circles until the fabric creaked. “It doesn’t feel like enough,” she said.

Myra shrugged, barely moving. “Maybe it isn’t. But sometimes that’s all there is.”

Riley turned then, slowly, eyes sweeping the three women arrayed behind her. She looked at Myra first—longer than Andy expected—then at both of Laura. There was something in Riley’s face that was both accusation and question, but mostly just need.

She said, “So if Greg is my father, and he’s your father, and he’s Laura’s father…”

The rest of the sentence hung in the air. The implication had weight. For a moment, nobody wanted to carry it.

Laura, or both of her, nodded once. “It means we’re all half-sisters,” she said, quiet, as if testing how the word tasted.

Riley laughed, but it wasn’t funny. “That’s…” She stopped, made a noise in her throat, then started again. “That’s a lot.” She looked at Laura, not both but just the one to her left, and said, “Does that make you feel better? Knowing you’re not alone?”

Laura hesitated, then nodded. “It does,” she said. “And it means you aren’t either.”

Riley’s jaw tightened, and her eyes were brighter than before. “I always thought I was the last of something,” she said. “That it didn’t matter if I disappeared, because nobody was looking for me anyway.”

Myra’s voice was barely a whisper, but it cut clean through the air. “You’re not the last of anything, Riley. Not anymore.”

Riley stared at her for a second, like she was trying to decide whether to hit her or hug her. She didn’t do either. Instead, she let out a shuddering breath, then pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes.

Laura’s two bodies stepped closer, in perfect sync, bracketing Riley from both sides. They didn’t touch her at first, just stood there, offering the space. Then, when Riley’s shoulders began to shake, the rightmost Laura reached over and pulled her in by the back of the neck, pressing Riley’s head to her shoulder. The other Laura closed in from the opposite side, arms wrapping Riley up like the world’s most determined hug. It wasn’t gentle—if anything, it looked more like a brawl at first—but it was real, and after a second, Riley stopped fighting it.

She started to cry. Not the tidy, single-tear kind, but the kind that emptied a whole day’s worth of fight in under a minute. Her arms came up and clutched at Laura’s shirt, fists twisted tight in the fabric. Both of Laura held her, one hand at her neck, the other rubbing circles on her back, like they’d practiced it a hundred times before.

Andy came up then, slow and careful, and put a hand on Riley’s back. He didn’t say anything, just stood there and let the warmth of his palm anchor her to the earth.

Myra joined last. She touched Riley’s shoulder, then slid her hand down to Riley’s, interlacing their fingers without asking. Her grip was strong, almost fierce, and she didn’t let go even when Riley squeezed back so hard it must have hurt.

They stood like that for a long time, a small knot of people holding each other together in the middle of a meadow nobody else would ever see. The elevator doors were only a few dozen yards away, gleaming and silent. There was nothing waiting for them on the other side except more questions, more days, more unsolvable problems. But for now, nobody moved. Nobody wanted to break the embrace.

After a while, the crying slowed. Riley let her head fall to one side, still caught between Laura’s bodies, her eyes red but dry. She wiped her face on her sleeve and looked at Andy, then at Myra, then at both Laura.

She said, “You know, this is the weirdest family anyone ever invented.”

Laura laughed, a real one this time. “By far,” she said, and the other Laura echoed her, both smiling through the tears.

Myra just squeezed Riley’s hand, tails low but at peace.