It was a beautiful autumn morning.
Children laughed somewhere beyond the trees, chasing leaves that fluttered down like gold coins from the sky. The air was crisp, gentle. Peaceful.
Lena Cavanaugh stood on the porch of her new home — a modest rental in a quiet town where no one knew her name. Her coat was cream, soft against her pale skin. Her hair, grown longer, drifted slightly in the breeze.
The scar on her shoulder was hidden beneath her collar.
Her smile was not.
A reporter had asked her once — during one of the interviews following "The Voss Incident" — how she stayed strong.
"You've endured so much… and yet you still smile."
Lena had looked into the camera, tear in one eye, and said:
"Because the only way to survive hell is to build heaven inside yourself."
The world had eaten it up.
She kept a scrapbook now.
Photos. Clippings. Journal pages.
She opened it over tea each morning like others might read the paper.
Page one: her family's obituary.
Page two: a single still from the video — her, as a child, covered in soot, smiling at the camera.
Page three: a burned scrap from Caitlyn's police notes.
Tucked between pages, like pressed flowers, were small tokens.
A button from her therapist's coat.
A strand of Miranda's gray hair.
A coffee stirrer from the shop where Voss met her doom.
Each one held a piece of her lie.
Each one reminded her: You can't control the truth, but you can bury it under something more beautiful.
She had neighbors now.
An older couple across the street — Margaret and Thomas.
Sweet, retired, lonely.
They brought over casseroles. Asked about her "past life." Called her brave. Called her darling. Said she deserved a second chance.
And Lena?
She smiled.
Of course.
She always smiled.
At night, she sat by the window with her journal open, pen scratching softly.
They trust me already.
They said they never had children.
Margaret bakes on Sundays. Thomas falls asleep in his chair.
Their house has a basement.
The walls are thin.
It will be perfect.
She titled the entry in red ink:
"The Second Family"
Sometimes, when she closes her eyes, she hears the fire again.
The crackling.
The laughter.
Her own voice, as a child:
"Watch me. Watch what I can do."
And the flames always answer:
We're watching.
She stood now at the edge of the porch, watching Margaret hang laundry.
She raised a hand and waved.
Margaret waved back, smiling wide.
A new town.
A new name.
A new start.
And deep within Lena's chest — beneath the lace and the lies — a spark caught flame.
A new masterpiece was coming.
One no one would ever believe.
Because no one ever suspects the girl who smiles.
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END