"Tell me, Maya," I said, adjusting the small dial on my hearing aid until the soft hum sharpened the sound of her breathing. "With that money — what will you use it for?"
Her fingers fumbled together in her lap, twisting, untwisting — nervous choreography. I didn't even need to look at her face to know the lie was already forming.
"I—I just need it for my rent," she stammered. "The bills are getting—"
"Sure," I cut in, the corner of my mouth lifting in something that wasn't quite a smile. "Rent. Bills. The standard answer."
I leaned back against the seat, watching her reflection in the car window.
She swallowed, eyes darting away. The silence stretched, the only sound the faint ticking of my hearing aid catching the rhythm of her breath — quick, uneven, scared.
In my head, I'd already labeled her response as predictable. Not because I wanted to — but because I couldn't help it. My brain always sorted lies from truth like files. And this one?
It screamed fabrication.
But when she finally looked up, her eyes were wet, her voice trembling in a way that wasn't cheap or practiced.
"For my sister," she whispered. "She's sick. The hospital in Glasgow stopped treatment two months ago. I just need enough for another round… that's all."
For a second, I forgot to breathe. The hum in my hearing aid turned into static, drowning out the sound of the road. I'd expected deceit, not desperation.
I looked at her again — properly this time. The cracks in her makeup, the bitten nails, the way she didn't try to cry prettier.
Lucas glanced at me from the driver's seat, but said nothing. He didn't need to. The silence was heavy enough to speak for both of us.
Lucas stopped the car in front of a pharmacy store, he gestured silently to me to go with Maya—to have some privacy space to talk.
The bell above the pharmacy door chimed faintly as we stepped inside.
The air smelled of antiseptic and dust—clean, but not fresh. Maya trailed behind me, her steps hesitant, eyes darting between the shelves stacked with medicine.
"Pick what you need," I said quietly, watching her reflection in the glass of the refrigerator section.
She didn't move at first. Then, finally, she started heading toward the woman still checking the shelf nearby, fumbling through her weak German to ask for something. Her voice was quiet, uncertain—each word rolling out with that hesitant accent of someone who learned the language just to survive, not to speak.
She returned with a ointment tube, the expensive one.
"Well," I take the tube when she put it in my palm. "how is your sister then?". I tilted the tube in my hand, reading the label. Medical-grade burn ointment. Not something you'd buy for a common rash.
Maya hesitated, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. "She's… not good," she said finally. "The doctors said her treatment might stop if we can't pay next month. She's only fifteen."
"Treatment?"
Maya didn't answer right away. She glanced toward the pharmacy window, where the neon cross blinked in and out, then said, almost absently, "She's been fighting blood cancer for years. My father drinks. Mostly gone by noon."
She said it like she was listing the weather — flat, almost bored — but there was something about the way her thumb pressed hard against her other palm, as if to keep something from slipping.
"I work double shifts," she continued, still not looking at me. "Sometimes I don't even go home for days. I just need money to send home."
There was no tremor, no plea, no practiced sadness. Just facts. Simple and clean.
I caught myself studying her face too long. My brain tried to pick apart her tone, her posture, the rhythm of her voice — the usual obsessive cataloguing. Searching for deceit, weakness, anything to file away as proof she wasn't lying. But there was none.
I lit up a cigarette, ignoring that the rain make it hard to lit up her gaslighter. Never mind.
Maya let out a small, humorless breath — not quite a laugh. "She left when I was ten. Said she'd come back once my father stopped drinking." She shrugged, her voice steady. "He never did. And she never came back."
"You not good at lying you know." I exhale a soft blow.
I studied her again. My OCD brain tried to measure the pitch of her voice, the micro-movements around her mouth — looking for inconsistencies, lies, manipulation. Nothing. Just exhaustion, the kind that runs too deep to fake.
"I'm not here to ruin your life, Maya. I just need you to do something for me."
She blinked, confused, cautious.
"But before that," I gave her a white envelope. "Take this one, pay half of your sister whole treatment first, the half I will see if you have enough braveness to deal with it alone."
"Boom"
I shut my eyes tightly, fuck—is thunder. My hands shaking, clutching tightly at the envelope.
The thunder came again, closer this time. I swallowed, forcing my mind to shift gears.
"Help me with something. Three days. Find the restaurant's appointment history — any booking under the name Löwendeld."
"What was that?"
"Privacy". I flicker the ash away.
She blinked, surprised. "And after that?"
"After that," I said, straightening, "I'll see if my eyes for people still working, or I will go empty like my ears."
"And what if I succeed?" Maya asked, her voice steady, but her eyes—wide, gleaming—betrayed something raw.
"You and your sister will have another good place to stay," I replied evenly. "A good job. Better conditions than what you've got now."
Maya let out a small laugh—short, the kind that carried gratitude. It was also lace with tired. The sound hung between us like the faint hum of the fluorescent light above.
This girl—she had a talent for surprising me.
She shoved the envelope back into my hand, the crisp paper brushing against my palm. "Ma'am," she said, meeting my eyes. Her tone lost its hesitation, replaced by something colder, older than her years.
"I appreciate it, ma'am," she said, pushing the envelope back toward me. "But I don't want to owe anyone anything—especially not someone I barely know."
Her words landed like a slap, not out of rudeness, but honesty. Her fingers trembled slightly, though her voice didn't. "People always ask for something back. Always. My sister doesn't need more promises. She needs peace."
Outside, thunder rolled through the clouds, heavy and close.
I stared at her, speechless for a moment. It wasn't rejection—it was defiance wrapped in dignity.
"You've got pride," I finally said, tucking the envelope back into my coat pocket.
Maya gave a faint shrug. "No, ma'am. I've got experience."
The door chimed softly when she stepped out into the rain, her small frame swallowed by the grey air.
I stayed still, the thunder muting into a distant growl, her last words echoing inside me like a truth I didn't want to hear.
By the time I stepped out, the rain had softened into a drizzle, thin drops sliding down the car windows like pale veins. Lucas was still in the driver's seat, one arm draped over the wheel, the other tapping idly on his thigh.
He glanced up when I opened the door, his usual smirk fading the moment he saw my face.
"Everything okay?" he asked.
I didn't answer. Just closed the door, the soft thud muffled by the rain.
The car smelled faintly of coffee and leather.
"She backed to work, let's go."
We drove in silence for a while. The city blurred past—gray buildings, the flash of red lights on wet pavement, the smell of rain clinging to everything.
Lucas's fingers drummed softly against the steering wheel. "You're really not gonna tell me what that was about, huh?"
I turned my head toward the window, watching the raindrops slide down like fading trails of thought. "Not today."
He nodded once, no questions, just understanding. That was the thing about Lucas—he didn't push. He never did.
When the car stopped at the red light, I spoke without looking at him. "You still planning to stay in Frankfurt long?"
He hesitated. "Couple more days. Depends if my flight to England gets delayed again."
"Then stay," I said simply. "At my place. I've got room."
He blinked, caught off guard. "Your place? You mean—"
"My apartment," I cut in, keeping my tone flat. "In Berlin. You'll like it. It's quiet. Close to the river."
I looked at his eyes in the mirror. It's hesitant but he seems considering it.
"What about my hotel room?"
"Oh, come on Lucas, you can cancel it, just give them some excuse."
He laughed softly, not out of humor but disbelief. "You're inviting me to your den, Löwendeld? That's new."
I turned to him finally, eyes steady. "Don't overthink it. You could use somewhere to stay. And I…"
I paused, searching for the word but didn't find it. "I could use someone who doesn't ask too much."
The light turned green.
He pressed the pedal, and the car moved forward. Neither of us said another word.
Waiting for him outside, I leaned against the car, watching the rain trace lazy lines down the window. The sky hung low—grey, heavy, pressing down on the city like a weight no one could lift.
Ting.
A message. The sound was sharp against the muffled drizzle.
I checked my phone. "Give me five minutes. —L."
I didn't reply. Just slid the phone back into my coat pocket and exhaled, the air fogging in front of me.
The street was almost empty. A lone cyclist passed, wheels slicing through puddles. Somewhere far off, church bells began to toll, their echo bending through the wet air.
For a moment, I closed my eyes, letting the sound of it drown out the noise in my head—the questions, the names, the faces.
Ting—Ting—Ting!
"Yes! Yes! I know, I kno—" I stopped mid-sentence, the words drying on my tongue as I looked down.
The messages kept coming. One after another. From that number.
A number I hadn't seen in years. One that should've been erased—burned with the past. My thumb hovered above the screen, too afraid to open them, too curious not to.
Unknown Number:
Did you find it yet?
Another came right after, as if the sender could sense my hesitation.
Unknown Number:
"St. Martin. She left something there for you."
"Submariner Date Black. Good luck"
My stomach clenched. The phone felt suddenly heavier in my hand, the glow of the screen reflecting in the rain-streaked glass beside me.
"Anna?"
Lucas's voice cut through the moment. He was closer now, shaking the water from his hood, his duffel bag slung over one shoulder.
I locked the screen quickly, shoving the phone deep into my pocket before he could notice.
"Everything alright?" he asked.
I forced a small smile. "Yeah. Just… spam."
He didn't look convinced, but he didn't press. The rain fell harder, drumming against the car roof like impatient fingers.
I stared out into the blurred city lights and whispered, almost to myself,
"Something for me…"
The rain came down harder, slicing through the air like fine needles.
Before Lucas could even open his mouth again, I yanked the car door open.
"Anna—?"
I didn't answer. My boots hit the wet pavement, splashing through shallow puddles as I broke into a run. The cold bit into my skin, the rain stinging my face, but I didn't care.
St. Martin.
The name pulsed in my head like a heartbeat. Each step echoed it. St. Martin. St. Martin.
Behind me, I heard Lucas shouting my name, the sound swallowed by the storm. Cars hissed past, horns blaring, but all I saw was the blurred cross-shaped silhouette rising through the fog—the church's tower, half-hidden in the downpour.
Fuck.fuck.fuck
My lungs will explode. The closer I got, the louder everything became—the rain, the thunder, the chaos inside my chest. My hair clung to my cheeks, the hearing aid buzzing sharply with static as water slipped past the casing.
"Boom!"
"Fuck!" I turned off my hearing aids completely.
By the time I reached the gate, I was drenched. The old metal creaked under my grip, cold and rough.
The message replayed in my head.
She left something there for you.
I pushed the gate open.
The sound in the church was nearly empty, except for the faint murmur of prayer and the distant creak of old wood under rain. I pushed the heavy door open, breathless, my hair damp and clinging to my face. Father Martin looked up from the altar, a soft smile forming as he recognized me.
"You came," he said, his voice calm as always. "Sit, my child."
It made was low, almost human, like a warning.
"Did you send me those texts , Father?"
I catching my breath. Hand clutching on the wooden chair.
I slowly sit down on the nearest chair.
"How old are you now, is been a long time, after that day I saw you outside of the church." He avoided my question.
I blinked, hesitated a bit. Why he know me. "Twenty six, that time I just in—hurry."
I look at the cross on the wall, it give me a chill down my spine.
"Why you know me?"
He finished lighting up candles. Holding a small leather pack under a nearby small drawer. He approaching me then put it in front of my face.
"Your mother is the most devout Christian I have ever met. She is devoted and kind with her heart, with everyone, especially you… her precious part of soul."
My eyes already stung, no one talking about my mother like that after she gone. My eyes avoiding his, I can't let him see my vulnerability.
"She said you have eyes like the person she truly loves, your presence is the thread that connects her to her hometown and that person..". He trailed off softly.
I know, she always said about her father, the one who using her as a trophy wife, always trying to save his pride in front of everyone.
"She shouldn't talk like that—to my father, she should have live true with herself."
He silenced, studying my words then let out a soft sigh.
"She not let you know right?"
My head turned to him, searching his calm, knowing eyes. Know what? I wanted to ask. About what—about the reasons she never lived true to herself? The secrets she carried like chains?
I opened the pack slowly, my fingers trembling.
My mother's birth certificate lay there, crisp but yellowed at the edges, the ink slightly faded with time. My heart pounded as I traced the letters, my eyes catching the name—not the one I had always known. A different surname stared back at me, unfamiliar yet painfully real.
And then I saw it: her hometown, written in neat, almost austere handwriting. Not the place I had imagined, not the life I thought she came from.
"Elizabeth Antoinette Marie Jane—Edinburgh."
My lips trembled as the words sank in. Edinburgh. My mother… had lived a life across the sea, in a city I had only ever visited in stories, in passing mentions. The woman I thought I knew, the woman whose shadow had shaped my childhood, had roots somewhere I had never imagined.
I looked up at Father Martin, my chest tight, my voice barely a whisper. "Edinburgh…? She… she never told me."
Father Martin's gaze softened, but there was a tension in his jaw, a weight that seemed to press down on the entire church. "Some truths, Anna… are dangerous. Some truths, if revealed too soon, can hurt more than they heal. She wanted to protect you—from the past… from the people who would try to pull you back into it."
Who?
Is there someone else more?
I stared at the certificate again, the name, the city, the life she had hidden. And for the first time, I realized that my mother's secrets weren't just about her—they were about me, and the life I thought I understood.
A shiver ran down my spine as the rain outside began to fall harder, drumming against the stained-glass windows like a warning I wasn't ready to hear.
"Fucking—fucking hell, Anna."
The door swung open with a violent creak, and there he was—Lucas. Rain plastered his blonde hair to his forehead, chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. His eyes were wide, scanning the church like he had just run through a storm… and maybe he had.
I froze, clutching the papers to my chest. My heart thumped so loudly I was sure he could hear it over the rain. "Lucas…" My voice trembled.
"Why you running, like—oh my lungs..,". He trying to catch his breath, leaning against the door frame.
"Fucking—bloody hell Anna," He look at me, then eyes widen in shock.
"Shit, Father Martin, I'm sorry with my language, i—I just…" he stammering out, laughing in nervous.
I carefully folded the certificate and slid it back into my bag, making sure not to dampen the fragile papers with the rain still clinging to my sleeves. Every movement felt deliberate, almost sacred.
I stood up.
"I… I need to go," I said, my voice barely steady. The words sounded strange even to me, like I was pushing away not just the church, but the past itself.
"What?!" Lucas whinnied, he look at me with wide eyes.
"I just came here, why we have to rus—…"
"Now, Lucas!". I stared at him, then walk straight to the door.
The cold rain outside hit me immediately, soaking my hair and coat, but I barely noticed. My heart was pounding, my mind a jumble of questions, revelations, and fear. I had my mother's secret in my hands, and I had to figure out what it meant—on my own, before anything else could catch up to me.
Sliding in the car, Lucas open the door, his expression kinda confused and annoying. "Look, Anna."
"There is something might happened, what happened? Tell me at least!"
I shake my head. "You don't understand."
Yes! I don't understand because you never talk to me openly—you, you just vanished off the face of the earth after we graduated! Barely texting, barely talking to anyone…!!"
His voice rose, sharp and trembling with frustration. The echo in the empty church hit like thunder, too loud, too sudden. My hearing aid crackled with the sound, a harsh ring slicing through the air.
I flinched, pressing a hand to my ear. The noise fractured, too close, too much.
"Lucas—stop," I breathed, my voice trembling.
He froze when he saw me wince, his anger faltering. His eyes widened, guilt flashing across his face. "Shit—Anna, I didn't mean—"
I shook my head, turning slightly away, trying to steady the ringing in my ears. "It's fine," I whispered, though it wasn't. "Just… lower your voice. Please."
He sigh, rubbing his face.
"What happened to you, Annasia… what happened? Why do you look like—you don't seem like you anymore?"
His voice cracked at the edges, soft but trembling. He reached out, fingertips hovering near mine, the kind of gesture that once would've felt safe.
But I pulled my hand back before he could touch me. The space between us felt wider than the rain-soaked world outside.
I didn't answer. I couldn't. My throat tightened around words that refused to come.
He studied me for a moment, desperate for something—an explanation, a look, anything that could bridge what time and silence had broken.
But all I could do was whisper, "Please, Lucas… drive."
The weight in my voice seemed to stop him. For a second, he just stood there, his breath shallow, rainwater dripping from his hair onto the church floor.
Then, without another word, he turned, running a hand down his face before nodding once. "Alright," he muttered, voice low. "Alright."
The engine roared into life, the car rolling on the dark street, my head leaning on the window. Fuck, I feel absolutely devastated, guilty as fuck when I shut him out like that.
"I don't even know who am i…"
I whispered to myself. "I don't know…"