“Dinner,” he said again, softer this time. Calm. Certain.
Her fingers tightened on the cup.Don’t be foolish, Sofia.
She held his stare, though a part of her wanted to look away before he saw how tempted she truly was. Loneliness had been gnawing at her for weeks. More than once, she had lifted her phone to call her mother, only to remember she was gone. Eachtime, Sofia broke down, feeling as if the world had emptied around her.
She wished she had someone she trusted—someone she could call and spill every doubt, every fear, and every ache weighing on her chest. Some nights she even wished she dared to approach another person in a restaurant and ask if she could sit with them, just to feel less alone. That hunger for connection had cracked something inside her, and for one reckless heartbeat, she almost reached out and accepted what he offered.
But something in his gaze made her hesitate. Or perhaps it was simply the shock of having a man this handsome giving her such focused attention.
Still, she blinked and murmured, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
His smirk deepened. “Okay, maybe next time.”
Something like disappointment flickered in her chest. He slid a card across the counter—just a number.
She traced the edge. “Do you always come this prepared?”
“I like keeping my options open. You never know.”
Of course, he had cards on him. He probably counted this as a slow day.
Sofia pocketed it out of politeness.I won’t call.
“Well, Tonio,” she said, standing, “thanks for the coffee.”
He merely smiled and watched her with his hawk-like intensity.
She stepped into the crisp evening air, telling herself she wouldn’t call. Yet the card burned in her pocket—a reminder she was determined to resist.
A few days later,restlessness followed Sofia north—miles of empty backroads unraveling toward a town time had forgotten. The place where the orphanage once stood was quiet, hollow, its single road lined with weathered bricks. St. Agnes had closed nearly twenty years ago, left to rot. But places like that never really buried their ghosts. Someone always remembered.
She started at the library. Small towns kept records—old newspapers, church bulletins, something. The librarian, sharp-eyed and gray-haired, studied Sofia carefully.
“St. Agnes?” she asked, adjusting her glasses. “Terrible place. Shut down ages ago.” Her gaze lingered on Sofia’s face. “Some of those kids vanished into the system. Never heard from again. Why are you asking?”
“My mother lived there,” Sofia said.
“I knew many of the girls who lived there. Sometimes they were allowed to visit the library.”
“Do you remember a Katya Ivanova?”
The woman’s stern expression softened. “Ivanova… yes. I remember that name.” Her voice dropped. “There was a scandal surrounding her name. The nuns never spoke of it, but the other girls used to whisper among themselves.”
Sofia’s stomach tightened. “Whispered about what?”
“That she wasn’t just running away. She was running from someone terrible, and that place wanted to cover it up.”
That awful, cold sensation that had followed her ever since she learned the truth about her mother’s past stirred deep in Sofia’s chest. The librarian glanced around, then leaned in. “The local paper did a story when the place shut down. You’llfind it on microfiche—theBlackwater Gazette, probably around summer 2002. Look in July or August. You’ll know it when you see it.”
She led Sofia to a dusty machine in the back. Drawers of labeled film canisters lined the cabinet. Sofia spent the next hour in the blue glow of the screen, scrolling through decades-old news. The closure article was ordinary—funding, upkeep, neglect—but one line stopped her cold:
The closure brings a final chapter to an institution long marred by tragedy, including the unsolved disappearance of a teenage girl.
Her heart started thrumming faster. It was nothing. And everything.
She returned to the front desk. The librarian looked up, already knowing.
“It’s not much,” Sofia said.
