Chapter 6: When the Call Came

2:00 A.M.

Leon shot upright in bed, his skin drenched in cold sweat. His breath came in sharp, ragged gasps—like someone who had just swum through a storm at sea under a moonless sky. His chest rose and fell in heavy tremors, and his eyes stared into the formless darkness before him, where a voice still echoed from the abyss of his subconscious:

“I’m sorry, my son … I can’t stay by your side anymore…”

He could still vividly remember that face—his mother’s face—on that fateful night.

Those amber eyes, like the dying light of sunset before the world collapses into dusk, haunted him. They were a scar time could not erase. He had lost count of how many times he had relived that nightmare. But one thing never changed: every time he woke, the grief clawed at him as raw, as fresh, as the very first day.

Years had passed, like dust settling on an old, forgotten painting. But some memories—especially the ones we try hardest to bury—only dig deeper.

Like that night.

That night where blood and screams composed the only symphony he knew.

And in that wretched symphony, his mother was the first note erased.

Leon pressed a hand to his forehead, sitting motionless on the bed.

In that vast, immaculate bedroom—every corner designed with precision and elegance—his heart was the only thing out of proportion.

No one knew that the cold, sharp CEO of Sterling Group carried within him a fear so primal, so deep-rooted it had no name.

A shadow without form.

A night without end.

He stood slowly and walked to the window.

Beyond the glass, the city pulsed with life—light and motion breathing unconsciously in the distance.

But inside him, everything had long fallen apart.

The pieces no longer fit.

Not even in his own hands.

Later that same week.

The afternoon light was thinning, and the breeze had turned colder, whispering through the halls of the sprawling estate.

In a quiet room awash in soft, muted hues, Anna sat beside a tall window that framed the back garden.

Wrapped in a gray cashmere sweater, she clutched a steaming cup of cocoa—its fragile warmth the only proof she was still here, still human, still trying.

The golden hour spilled across the marble floor in streaks of melancholy orange. Everything felt suspended—so still she could hear the wind threading through the trees, like a lullaby for ghosts.

Without warning, a memory stirred.

There was no clear reason.

But on days like this—when the sky bruised early and the air turned brittle—Anna always thought of her mother.

She didn’t mean to.

It just happened.

A soft hand stroking her hair.

A voice humming quietly in the dark.

The scent of rain and warm milk and old stories.

Her eyes lowered.

The steam from her cup fogged her glasses, forming a veil like the one growing over her heart—thin, stubborn, and refusing to lift.

“It’s cold… isn’t it, Mom?” she whispered to the silence.

There was no answer.

And yet, in that moment, she could almost feel it—her mother wrapping a scarf around her shoulders, scolding with gentle affection:

“All grown up, and still such a soft thing when the wind blows, huh?”

Anna let out a breath that was part sigh, part laugh.

She didn’t cry.

But something deep inside her shifted—like a tide crashing quietly beneath still waters.

How long had it been since she remembered her mother this clearly?

Was it this house?

So vast and beautifully empty, it echoed more than it embraced.

Or was it Leon?

Always so close… and yet, somehow, always leaving her cold.

She stood up, walked to the desk, and opened a drawer.

Inside was an old photograph, edges yellowed.

In it, her mother was smiling—eyes bright, arms around a tiny version of Anna who looked up at her with wonder and trust.

I miss you, Mom.

A thought. A breath. A prayer.

Lighter than the wind. Softer than dusk.

And heavy enough to break the sky.

That’s when the phone rang.

It cut through the silence like a blade—sharp, cold, final.

Anna flinched, set down her cup, and reached for the phone buzzing on the shelf.

Sally.

Her aunt.

She hadn’t heard from her in months.

Something in Anna’s chest twisted.

A chill crawled down her spine as she answered the call.

“Hello? Aunt Tracy?”

There was a pause.

Then a long, shaky sigh.

A voice strained with sorrow, barely holding itself together:

“Anna… it’s me- Tracy. I’m so sorry, but… your mother… she just passed away..."

The world stopped.

Anna didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

Her ears buzzed. Her heartbeat raced in uneven bursts.

She wasn’t sure if she said anything at all—or if the silence devoured both sides of the call.

“This morning… her heart suddenly gave out,” Tracy continued, her voice thick with grief.

“They tried everything. But she passed… in my arms. She wanted so badly to see you. Just once more. But her body… it just couldn’t take it anymore.”

The words didn’t land.

They shattered.

Her mother?

The woman who’d rocked her to sleep?

Who had laughed at her burnt pancakes?

Who had whispered over and over, “You’re the brightest light in my life”?

Gone?

Something cracked—soundlessly but catastrophically—inside Anna.

Her body folded forward, one trembling hand gripping the edge of the table as if it were the only thing keeping her upright.

The mansion around her faded into a vacuum of silence.

She could hear the wind howling outside.

The ticking of the clock—merciless, mechanical—dragging her further and further away from her mother’s embrace.

Tracy’s voice reached her again, soft and pleading:

“The funeral will be this Saturday. I know you’re busy, but… please, Anna. She deserves a proper goodbye.”

Anna nodded—robotic, numb.

Her eyes stayed dry.

But within her chest, a storm howled.

She didn’t cry.

Not because it didn’t hurt.

But because the pain was too deep.

Too vast.

Too far beneath the surface for tears to find their way.