Amara slammed the book shut, the sharp sound echoing in the quiet library. A frustrated breath left her lips as she rubbed her temples, trying to ease the growing headache that had settled behind her eyes. The pages in front of her blurred, the ink merging into unintelligible smudges. She had been at this for hours, poring over texts, scouring every piece of literature she could find, but nothing—nothing—was helping.
She had started with tragedy in classical literature, dissecting Aristotle's Poetics, Shakespeare's melancholic heroes, the grand sufferings of Sophocles' doomed characters. But the more she read, the more it felt like she was drowning in a sea of analysis that offered no clear path forward. Her mind refused to focus, her thoughts running in chaotic circles. No matter how hard she tried, the answers she sought remained just out of reach.
With a frustrated sigh, she pushed away from the table, sending a few stray papers fluttering to the ground. Leah, who had been watching her in quiet concern, finally spoke up. "You need a break."
"I don't have time for a break," Amara snapped, though the sharpness in her voice wasn't directed at Leah but at the weight of her own helplessness.
Leah crossed her arms, unfazed. "Well, clearly, this isn't working. You've been reading for hours, and you look like you're about to combust."
Amara leaned back, staring at the high ceiling of the library, willing her frustration to settle. She couldn't afford to break down now. But Leah was right—this wasn't working.
Then, like a spark in the dark, a memory surfaced.
Her father's study.
Her father's research.
Of course. How could she have forgotten?
The real foundation of her knowledge on tragedy didn't come from university texts or scholars' interpretations. It came from the countless hours spent in her father's study, surrounded by his annotated books and scattered notes, listening to him explain the nuances of pain and passion in literature.
But that house was no longer hers.
The weight of reality settled in her stomach like a stone. After her parents' passing, the house had been locked away, untouched, frozen in time like a relic of a past life. She hadn't set foot inside in years.
But the research was still there. It had to be.
Leah was still speaking, but Amara had already made up her mind. "I need to go."
Leah blinked. "Go where?"
"To my house."
"Amara…" Leah hesitated, concern flashing in her eyes. "Are you sure?"
Amara didn't answer. Because she wasn't sure. But she had no choice.
Hours later, under the cover of night, Amara stood at the edge of the wrought iron gate, staring at the house that had once been her home.
The street was quiet, lined with towering trees that cast long shadows under the dim glow of streetlights. The house loomed before her, dark and silent, its windows like empty eyes watching her approach. A gust of wind rustled the leaves, sending a shiver down her spine.
She knew the front door would be locked, and she had no key. But she also knew another way in.
Steeling herself, she moved around the side of the house, her steps careful and measured. The backyard was overgrown, the grass wild and unkempt, reclaiming the land that had once been meticulously maintained by her mother.
The back entrance was a small window near the kitchen, one she had used countless times as a child whenever she forgot her keys. She reached for it, fingers curling around the edges, and gave a gentle push. It stuck for a moment before creaking open, the sound too loud in the eerie silence.
Heart pounding, she hoisted herself up and slid inside, landing lightly on the wooden floor. Dust puffed up around her feet, the air thick with the scent of neglect and memories long buried.
She straightened, letting her eyes adjust to the dimness. The kitchen was exactly as she remembered—only lifeless.
Memories flickered through her mind.
Her mother at the stove, humming softly as she prepared breakfast. The scent of fresh coffee filling the air. Her father sitting at the table, flipping through a newspaper, glancing at her over the rim of his glasses with a knowing smile. She could still hear the echo of her mother's laughter as she prepared meals, the warmth of the home they had once shared. But the warmth was gone now, replaced by an eerie silence that pressed in on her from all sides.
As she stepped into the living room, the past crashed into her with brutal force. The furniture was still covered with white sheets, like forgotten ghosts waiting to be uncovered. She clenched her jaw as she stared at the fireplace, remembering the countless nights she had spent curled up by the flames, listening to her father's stories.
And then, the memories turned darker.
Her mother's screams. The way they had cut through the walls, raw and desperate. The way her father had shouted back, his voice breaking in agony. She could still see it—the chaos, the way her mother had clutched at her as if trying to shield her from the nightmare unfolding around them.
She swallowed hard, pushing forward. She couldn't afford to get lost in the past. Not now.
She reached the library, the door creaking as she pushed it open. The room was exactly as she remembered it—walls lined with bookshelves, a grand mahogany desk in the center, and a single chair where her father used to sit for hours, lost in his research.
Her eyes scanned the shelves, searching for something—anything—that might lead her to his work. She stepped closer to the desk, her fingers running over the worn wood. Then, just as she reached for the first drawer—
A sound.
A door creaking open somewhere in the house.
Amara froze, her breath hitching in her throat.
She wasn't alone.
Amara's breath came in shallow gasps as she forced herself to move. The moment of fear passed, replaced by an urgency that burned through her veins. Someone was in the house, but she couldn't let that stop her. She had come for the research, for her father's legacy, and she wouldn't leave without it.
She turned back to the shelves, her fingers skimming over the spines of dusty books. Her father had always been meticulous, organizing his work in a system only he understood. She pulled out volumes, flipping through pages, searching for notes, anything that might hold a clue.
Nothing.
Frustration clawed at her chest as she moved to the desk, yanking open drawers. Empty. The next one—letters, old ink-stained pages, but none of them were his research notes. The last drawer refused to budge, and she gritted her teeth, using all her strength to pull it open. It gave way with a sudden jolt, nearly sending her off balance.
More papers. Loose sheets, filled with her father's writing. But as she scanned them, her stomach twisted. These were drafts, fragmented thoughts—pieces of the puzzle, but not the full research. Not the answers she needed.
A sharp metallic click echoed through the house.
Amara stiffened.
The front door had opened.
Her heart slammed against her ribs as she heard slow, deliberate footsteps. The sound of shoes tapping against the wooden floor sent chills down her spine. Someone was here. And they weren't in a hurry.
She darted her gaze around the room, searching for a place to hide. There was nowhere obvious—no heavy curtains, no large furniture to conceal her. The bookshelves. She moved swiftly, pressing herself into the narrow gap between two towering shelves, her breath caught in her throat.
The footsteps grew closer.
She clenched her hands into fists, willing herself to stay still as the library door creaked open. A shadow stretched across the floor, long and imposing. Through the narrow gaps between the books, she caught a glimpse of the intruder.
Rafael.
Her stomach dropped.
He stepped inside, his presence commanding, as if he belonged in this forgotten place. He moved with a quiet purpose, his gaze sweeping over the room, taking in the scattered papers, the open drawers. His jaw tightened.
Amara barely dared to breathe.
She watched as he crossed the room, his movements precise, practiced. He didn't hesitate as he reached for one of the shelves near the far wall. His fingers ran along the edges before he gave the entire structure a firm push.
Amara's eyes widened as the shelf shifted, revealing a hidden compartment behind it.
He knew.
He had always known.
Rafael reached inside and pulled out a stack of neatly bound papers. Her father's research. The very thing she had been searching for.
Amara's heart pounded in her ears as she watched him flip through the pages, his expression unreadable. And then—
He stopped.
For a moment, his body tensed, his head tilting slightly. His gaze flickered toward the bookshelves, his dark eyes narrowing ever so slightly.
He could sense her.
Amara pressed herself further back, biting down on her lip to keep from making a sound. She could feel the weight of his stare, the way his presence filled the room like a storm waiting to break.
A long silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.
Then, without a word, he turned and walked away, the papers clutched tightly in his grip. The library door closed behind him, and with it, Amara's last shred of hope.
She remained frozen for what felt like an eternity, her mind racing. He had taken everything. The one thing that could have saved her, that could have secured her future. Gone. Just like that.
Her breath came in short, ragged bursts as a crushing weight settled over her chest.
Rafael had stolen her father's work.
And now, she had nothing left.