Tabby blinked, pulling herself out of the whirlpool of memories that had swallowed her whole. The world around her came back in fragments — the scent of wilting flowers, the low murmur of voices, the faint hum of rain against the glass. She hadn't even realized the ceremony had ended.
At the last moment, just before the velvet curtain slid shut, she caught a glimpse of her mother's coffin — slowly disappearing behind it like a fading light. The sight pierced her chest. She covered her face with trembling hands, a hollow ache spreading through her body. Her vision swam; the air felt too thin. The room tilted. And then everything went black.
When she opened her eyes again, someone was holding her hand gently.
"Tabby, darling… it's all right," came Aunt Ruth's soft, steady voice. "Come, dear. You'll spend a few days at our house. I don't want you to be alone in times like these."
Tabby nodded weakly, her lips trembling. "Thank you, Auntie… I—I'd be so grateful."
The thought of returning home — to that empty house in Bedford, filled with silence and ghosts — made her stomach twist. Their neighborhood was like a village trapped inside the city. Everyone knew everyone. And everyone talked. Old women perched on porches, whispering gossip like crows. They would stop her, clutching her hands, their eyes full of pity and curiosity. Such a tragedy… so young… She couldn't bear it.
Aunt Ruth squeezed her arm as they walked toward the car parked by the gates. "That's a given, dear. You don't have to thank me. And… there's something else I need to tell you."
Tabby glanced at her warily.
"Your father called me this morning," Ruth continued, hesitating. "He sends his condolences. He couldn't come — said he had to cover for two sick doctors on the ambulance shift. But he… he deeply sympathizes and would like to see you soon."
Tabitha stopped mid-step. Her face hardened; a sharp crease appeared between her brows.
"My father?" she echoed, her voice laced with disbelief. "After all these years? What does he think — that I'll just fall into his arms and thank him for his sudden burst of conscience? If he even has one left!"
Her words came out sharper than she intended, but the bitterness had been festering for years. She remembered the stories her mother told — the charming blond medic who'd vanished the moment she announced she was pregnant. He'd left Sandra to raise a child alone, offering money that was refused out of pride. The last time she'd seen him, she was five — standing awkwardly beside a pile of toys and a giant teddy bear she never touched. She'd stuck her tongue out at him and run upstairs, leaving him standing in the hallway.
The memory still burned, even now.
Her mother had been the strong one. Always. Tabby had inherited her mother's dark hair and soft blue eyes — and was grateful for it. She couldn't imagine seeing her father's reflection staring back at her every morning. The only reminder she carried was his last name, an unwanted signature of his absence.
Aunt Ruth sighed deeply. "I know you're angry, Tabby. And you have every right to be. But he's still your father — the only family you have besides me. He has both the right and the duty to care for you now. He wants you to come to Ireland this summer. He's arranged for you to do a medical internship at his hospital in Dublin."
Tabitha stared ahead blankly. Her thoughts were foggy, her emotions dulled by exhaustion. What did it matter? Nothing mattered anymore — not the summer, not Ireland, not even the idea of seeing him again.
She just nodded faintly. "All right, Auntie… whatever you think is best."
Later that night, long after they returned home, Tabby lay awake in the unfamiliar guest room, staring at the ceiling. Her mind kept replaying the last few days in broken flashes — rain against the windows, her mother's laughter, the accident, the coffin. Somewhere between her sobs and silence, she finally drifted into a restless sleep.
---
Meanwhile — Ireland, Dublin. The same afternoon.
The gray skies over Dublin hung low and heavy, pressing against the windows of Saint James Hospital. Inside, the oncology ward buzzed faintly with the sounds of machines and footsteps — the rhythm of weary life and slow decay.
Dr. Steve Harris sank into his leather chair, exhausted. His temples throbbed; his eyes burned. He loosened his tie and exhaled. Another day, another wave of battles fought and half-lost.
For a long moment, he simply stared at the photograph beneath the glass on his desk — a faded picture of a little girl with wild hair and bright blue eyes. His daughter, Tabitha.
He wondered what she looked like now.
He'd missed the funeral — duty, as always, had intervened — but even if he'd been free, would he have had the courage to face her? He still couldn't forgive himself for the past. The mistakes. The silence. The cowardice that had cost him both Sandra and their child's trust.
If it hadn't been for his father's pressure back then — and his own weakness — everything might have turned out differently.
He rubbed his eyes again. For years, he had been alone, until he met Nicole — a kind, patient woman who had filled the emptiness in his life, though she could never have children of her own. They had built something fragile but peaceful. Yet now, with Sandra gone, the weight of old guilt had returned with a vengeance.
He had to make things right. He had to see Tabitha.
A knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts.
"Doctor Harris?" a nurse called softly. "There's one last patient waiting — sent over by Dr. Reed."
"Jack Reed?" Steve looked up with faint surprise. "We were at university together. Why didn't he call me?"
The door opened to reveal a tall, lean young man with a slightly olive complexion and tired eyes. Despite the smile on his face, there was something haunted about him.
"Good afternoon, Doctor. I'm David Hatcher," he said politely, handing him a brown envelope. "These are my test results and scans."
Steve nodded and opened the file. The more he read, the heavier his expression became. He clipped the MRI images onto the lightboard, the ghostly shapes glowing under the fluorescent light.
When he finally turned back to David, his tone had shifted — gentle but grave.
"How are you feeling, son? Any severe pain?"
"Nothing too bad," David replied quietly. "Just the headaches and dizziness. But I can still function, for now."
"Are you working or studying?"
"Studying archaeology," he said, a hint of pride creeping into his voice. "And traveling when I can. My father's a professor of history — he supports my adventures. We were planning a research trip to Nepal soon. My grandfather was from there, and he left behind a map — something about a cave in the Himalayas, still unexplored, wrapped in old legends."
Steve smiled faintly. "Sounds like something straight out of an adventure novel. Maybe you'll make a discovery to rival Howard Carter."
David gave a short, humorless laugh. "Maybe. Though I doubt I'll live long enough to enjoy the fame." He leaned forward suddenly, his tone sharp. "Doctor, please — don't dance around it. I can see it in your eyes. Whatever's in those scans… it's bad, isn't it?"
Steve hesitated. "There's always hope, David. We'll do everything possible—"
"Don't," David interrupted. "Please. I don't want the comforting version. I want the truth."
Silence filled the room. The steady hum of fluorescent lights was suddenly unbearable.
Finally, Steve exhaled. "It's a tumor. Deep behind the left eye socket. Still small, but dangerously placed. We can manage it for now — delay the growth, maybe give you time. But eventually, it will begin to affect your vision… your motor functions… even your organs. Surgery isn't an option."
David looked at him for a long moment, his jaw tightening. Then he forced a bitter smile.
"So that's it. I get to fade away piece by piece. Wonderful." He stood abruptly, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. "Don't worry, Doctor — I won't sit around waiting to die. I have things to do. I'll go to Nepal, explore that cave, finish what I started. Then I'll come back for your tests, if I'm still around."
He paused at the door, his voice low. "And… I'm sorry. I know it's not your fault. But I can't sit here and pretend I'm ready to accept this."
Before Steve could reply, the door closed behind him.
For a long while, Steve sat there in silence, staring at the glowing scans. He'd seen hundreds like them. Hundreds of patients whose lives were measured in months. He'd learned to harden himself, to let go. But something about this one — the young man's fierce defiance, the spark in his eyes — stayed with him.
He sighed heavily and shut off the lightboard. Life, he thought, was an absurd, rigged game — one that gave no explanations and spared no one.
And somewhere out there, his daughter — the girl in the photograph — was coming to Ireland, unknowingly stepping into a story far darker and more mysterious than either of them could imagine.