CHAPTER 21: Old Newspaper Clipping
The next morning, the window was open.
Ava noticed it first, the breeze brushing her shoulder as she stepped into the art room. Eli stood behind her, his hand finding the wall for guidance.
"I didn't leave that open," she said softly.
Eli's jaw clenched. "Neither did I."
They exchanged a glance—tight, wary. The kind that said: Something isn't right.
On the table, among Ava's sketches, something new lay unfolded. A single yellowed newspaper clipping. The edges were brittle. The ink smudged.
"LOCAL CHILD INJURED IN MYSTERIOUS HOUSE FIRE – ONE DEAD."
Ava's breath caught.
She picked it up, hands trembling. The photo was faded, but the house—it looked so familiar. Almost like the one from her dreams. The one from the fire she painted without remembering why.
She read aloud, voice cracking:
"A six-year-old girl was pulled from the blaze by neighbors. The fire began late evening, cause unknown. One child, believed to be her older sister, did not survive. The survivor is in stable condition. Names are withheld due to age."
Eli's hand slowly reached out, landing on the edge of the paper. His brow furrowed.
"A six-year-old," he repeated.
"Eli… I was six when I was adopted," Ava whispered.
He froze.
"I always thought I was abandoned. But what if… what if I wasn't?" Her voice cracked. "What if I survived something I wasn't supposed to remember?"
His voice was hoarse. "And your sister...?"
"I never knew I had one."
Silence fell between them, heavy and shattering.
Then Eli's voice dropped to a whisper. "Why was this left here?"
The question hung unanswered.
Until Ava noticed the back of the clipping.
In red pen, someone had circled a sentence:
"The child kept repeating one name—Eli."
Ava stumbled back like the words had punched her. "What?"
Eli's hands shook now. "That can't be—"
But the name was there.
Bold. Circled.
"I think I knew you before," Ava said, voice barely audible. "Not just from here. From there. From that fire."
The room spun. Eli sat down, head in his hands.
"Why can't I remember?" he asked.
"Because maybe it was too much," Ava said gently. "For both of us."
They sat in silence, the past wrapping around them like smoke.
But then Ava looked at the window again—and noticed something else.
A slip of black cloth. Torn. Stuck on the edge of the frame.
Someone had been here.
And whoever it was… they wanted them to remember.