Chapter 2 - The Echoes of Doubt
The morning after the gala felt heavy, suffocating under the weight of an unsaid truth. I sat at the mahogany breakfast table, the silver cutlery clinking softly against fine china, but the sound felt distant. My father, Victor, sat at the head of the table, reading the morning financial gazette with his usual unshakeable composure. Across from him, my mother, Claire, stared blankly into her cup of black coffee, the steam rising and dissipating into nothingness—much like her thoughts from the night before.
I couldn’t look at either of them without seeing the face in the alleyway. Liam. The name echoed in my mind like a low, persistent drumbeat.
"Evan," Victor’s voice broke the silence, deep and measured. He didn’t lower his newspaper. "Your behavior at the gala was erratic. Slipping away without a word to our hosts reflects poorly on the family name. We have expectations to uphold."
"I needed air, Father," I replied, my voice flat.
"Air can be found on the balcony, not wandering the service alleys behind the venue," Victor responded, finally folding the paper and setting it aside. His eyes, sharp and calculating, locked onto mine. "Make sure it doesn't happen again."
Beside him, Claire flinched slightly. It was a microscopic movement, but I caught it. She set her coffee cup down with a soft clink.
"Victor," she began, her voice trembling just enough to betray the storm beneath the surface. "Last night... I had that dream again."
Victor’s expression hardened instantly, though a mask of polite concern quickly replaced it. "Claire, we’ve discussed this. Stress from the foundation’s charity auction. Nothing more."
"It wasn't just stress," she whispered, her hands gripping the edge of the table until her knuckles turned white. "I felt it. I felt the cold metal of the table. I heard two cries, Victor. Not one. Two."
I sat frozen, fork hovering halfway to my mouth. Two cries?
Victor stood up, his tall frame casting a long shadow across the sunlit room. He walked over to Claire, placing a heavy, controlled hand on her shoulder. The gesture looked loving to an outsider, but to me, knowing what I now suspected, it looked like a cage.
"You were exhausted, my love," Victor said softly, his voice carrying an undeniable finality. "The medication the doctor prescribed years ago... perhaps we need to adjust the dosage. Let’s not speak of this nonsense in front of our son."
Claire looked up at him, her eyes wide, filled with a terrifying mixture of lingering conviction and deep-seated fear. She didn’t argue. She never argued. But as her gaze drifted past Victor and met mine, I saw a silent plea.
Find out.
That afternoon, I skipped my classes at the university and drove back to the district where the gala had been held. The neon lights of the high-end venue were gone, replaced by the dreary, washed-out tones of daylight. I parked my car several blocks away and walked into the labyrinth of narrow, brick-lined service alleys.
It didn't take long to realize how stark the transition was. Just one street over, luxury sedans glided smoothly over paved asphalt. Here, the pavement was cracked, graffiti covered the brick walls, and the air smelled of damp earth and industrial exhaust.
I stopped at the exact spot where I had seen him.
"Looking for someone?"
A sharp voice startled me. I turned around to find an elderly man leaning against the doorframe of a dilapidated corner shop, smoking a pipe. His face was weathered like old leather, and his eyes missed nothing.
"I’m looking for... a young man," I said hesitantly. "About my age. Dark hair, ragged clothes. His name is Liam."
The old man’s eyes narrowed. He took a slow drag from his pipe, exhaling a thick cloud of grey smoke before speaking. "Liam? You must be lost, kid. People from your side of town don’t usually come looking for the ghosts of this neighborhood."
"He’s not a ghost," I insisted, stepping closer. "I saw him. Last night."
The man chuckled, a dry, raspy sound. "Everybody around here has a double, son. Some wear tailored suits and sip champagne in glass towers. Others dig through dumpsters to survive. But none of them mix. If you saw Liam, you best keep walking. That boy has lived in the shadows his whole life, and the shadows don't like visitors."
"Why?" I asked, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Who is he?"
May you like
The old man stared at me for a long, agonizing moment. Up close, the resemblance between Liam and me seemed even more impossible to ignore—the shape of the jaw, the curve of the brow, the specific slant of the eyes.
"Ask your father," the old man muttered, turning his back and stepping inside his shop, letting the heavy wooden door slam shut behind him.
