“Coffee,” she says back.
I nod, grab the kettle, and carry it to the sink. Water rushes in. I move back, set it on the stove, and turn it on to boil.
I lean against the counter and watch her. She takes the opportunity to open the folder and chuckles.
“X-Files,” she says.
“Do you know something about them?” I ask casually as I take two cups from the cabinet.
She pulls out one of the old black-and-white photographs. Her finger presses against a young nurse standing beside a doctor.“That’s me.”
My breathing quickens. My eyes widen as the kettle begins to boil.
I take out the instant coffee, spooning two scoops into each cup, then pour the hot water in.“Milk?” I ask.
She shakes her head.
I carry both cups to the table and sit down, handing one to her. I keep the other in my hands, letting the warmth sink into my fingers.
I look down at the photograph. I see the resemblance, but she is so much older now that it feels unreal.
“It was a different time then,” she chuckles. “The eighties.”
“What was it like?” I ask.
“People definitely didn’t move into other people’s houses,” she says, taking a sip of coffee. “But times change.”
I smile. “Someone moved into your home?”
“Yeah.” She waves her hand. “It’s been eighteen years since I was there, so I expected something to happen.”
“Hm.” I hum softly, lifting the photo again. “Did you know the doctor?”
She nods. “He was a bright man.” She sighs. “Ambitious, too.”
“Aren’t we all?” I smile.
She shakes her head. “Not like him.”
Our eyes lock for a moment. I search her face, but all I see is a woman waiting to tell a story.
“What happened?” I ask. “I got this file yesterday from a detective, and I’m curious.”
“Are you working for them?” she asks, pressing her finger against the nameX-Files.
I shake my head. “No.” I smile. “I’m just here to treat a patient. Zayne sent you here.”
“Zayne,” she says, her eyes shining with tears. “That poor boy.”
I look at her, my fingers closing around hers. “What happened?” I ask again.
She presses her lips together, hesitating. Then she shakes her head, her grip tightening around my hand.
“It’s okay,” I say softly. “You can trust me.”
She nods. A tear slips free and trails down her cheek. After a long stretch of silence, she finally parts her lips.
“In 1981, Dr. Alistair came to the institute carrying a little boy in his arms,” she says. “The poor child was not even a day old.” She exhales slowly. “He claimed he found him in a dumpster in front of the institute, but as the boy grew, we all knew that was a lie.”
