Chapter 2 - The Ghost in the ApartmentThe world didn't just stop; it shattered. Blake Hamilton, the man who owned half of Manhattan’s skyline, felt like a child lost in a storm.
“Isla,” he breathed, his voice barely audible over the roar of the city. “Where is she? Where is your mother?”
Isla pointed toward a crumbling tenement building three blocks away, a place where the fire escapes groaned under the weight of rusted history. “Third floor. Apartment 3B. She’s sleeping. She gets tired really fast now.”
Blake didn't say another word. He scooped up the crate of oranges, ignoring the stares of passersby, and followed the little girl. Every step toward that building felt like walking through the flames of his own past. Seven years of silence, seven years of arrogance, seven years of believing that Claire had simply moved on, now condensed into a single, terrifying question: Why didn't she tell me?
They reached the door of 3B. It was peeling paint and splintered wood. Isla reached up, unlocked the door with a practiced hand, and beckoned him inside.
The apartment was small, barely a studio, but it was agonizingly clean. The air smelled of peppermint tea and medicinal rubbing alcohol. On a worn-out sofa in the corner, covered by a thin, patched quilt, lay the woman who had once been the center of his universe.
She was frail. Her hair, once a vibrant chestnut, was now brittle and dull. Her skin was translucent, stretched over high cheekbones that seemed carved by grief.
“Mommy?” Isla whispered, running to the sofa. “Mommy, I sold all the oranges. And a nice man helped me.”
The woman on the sofa stirred. Her green eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first, until they landed on the man standing in the doorway.
The color drained from her face, leaving her ghost-white. She gripped the blanket with trembling, thin fingers.
May you like
“Blake?” she rasped, a sound like dry leaves. “What… how did you…”
“Claire,” he choked out, dropping the crate. The thud echoed like a gunshot in the silent room. “My God, Claire. Why?”
