Episode 8: Tracing Her Footsteps
I returned to the Hope Center the next morning, long before it opened. I sat on the steps, my coat pulled tight around me, the chill biting at my fingers. But I didn't mind the cold. I needed it. It reminded me I was still alive—still moving forward.
For the first time in years, I had direction.
Her.
Clara.
I used to believe she ran away to punish me. Or our family. But maybe she was just trying to breathe. To exist without expectations.
And now, I wasn't here to bring her back into the box we both escaped. I just wanted her to know—
That I see her.
That I finally understand.
When Diane unlocked the door, she blinked in surprise. "You're early."
"I didn't sleep," I admitted.
She nodded like she knew exactly what that meant.
I followed her in and helped set up the room again. We moved supplies, cleaned brushes, sorted through sketches. I searched every piece of paper, every scrap, hoping for another trace of Clara.
Nothing.
But it wasn't hopeless. Because I knew now that she'd been here. She'd touched this place. Left a piece of herself behind.
"Did she say where she was going?" I asked softly.
Diane hesitated.
"She mentioned the coast," she said at last. "Somewhere quiet. Said she needed to be near water. Said it made her feel less… heavy."
Of course.
The lake.
The one constant in both our lives.
It wasn't just a memory—it was her anchor. Her peace.
I left the Hope Center with a destination. Or at least, the beginning of one.
That evening, I went back to her room again.
Not to mourn her absence—but to remember her presence.
I found a small box tucked under the bed. Inside were photographs, ticket stubs, pressed flowers, and a crumpled receipt from a diner near the coast.
It was dated six days ago.
There was a note scribbled on the back.
"One day, maybe I'll come back. But for now, I need to become someone I can live with."
I held it in my hands for a long time.
She wasn't running from me.
She was running toward herself.
And maybe, just maybe… she wanted me to find her.
To prove that I wasn't the sister who stayed out of obligation, but the one who would walk miles to meet her in the middle.
The next day, I packed a bag. Light. Just enough for a few days.
I told no one. Not because I was hiding—but because I didn't want to hear doubts or questions. This wasn't logic.
It was love.
And love doesn't always follow maps.
I drove for hours. Past cities, past the lake, past places we used to visit in the summer when we were kids and still believed in happy endings.
I stopped when I reached the edge of the sea.
Waves crashing against rocks. Salt in the air. The horizon endless.
It was quiet.
It was her kind of place.
I walked for a while, shoes in hand, letting the water kiss my toes.
Then I saw it.
A notebook on a bench, abandoned but not forgotten. The initials "CF" written in the corner.
I opened it.
Drawings.
Waves. Shells. A silhouette of a woman sitting alone, knees pulled to her chest.
And one page that stopped my breath.
Two sisters.
Side by side.
Smiling.
Not the forced smiles of photographs, but something real.
I sat on that bench as the sky turned orange and let myself believe that I was close.
Close to her.
Close to healing.
Close to the version of myself that didn't need silence to feel safe.
That night, I found a small inn by the shore. The woman behind the desk looked up as I gave my name.
"You're looking for Clara, aren't you?" she asked gently.
My heart stopped.
"Yes."
"She was here. Stayed two nights. Drew in the café for hours."
"Is she still here?"
She smiled softly. "No. But she left something for you."
She handed me a folded letter.
I opened it with trembling hands.
"Elena,
If you're reading this, then you really came.
I didn't know if you would. I hoped.
I'm not ready to come home. Not yet.
But I'm ready to talk.
Meet me where it all started.
I'll be there.
—Clara"
Where it all started.
The lake.
Of course.
I folded the letter, heart pounding.
She wasn't lost.
She was waiting.
Waiting for me to finally speak.
And I would.
I would say everything.