Curiosity about the Boy
“Who is Mark?” I blurted out, interrupting Clara’s fond recollections. My heart raced. I could sense a pivotal piece of the puzzle hiding in the shadows.
Clara hesitated, her eyes darting away from mine. “He was… a friend. Well, more than that, actually,” she stammered, her voice trembling slightly.
“A friend? I’ve never heard of him before,” I pressed, leaning closer.
“He was supposed to join us that day,” she finally admitted, her face paling. “But he wasn’t there.”
My stomach twisted at the thought. “Why wasn’t he there? Was there a reason?”
Before she could answer, Clara’s expression shifted. She clutched her stomach, eyes wide with sudden pain. “I… I don’t feel so good…” she gasped.
“Clara! What’s wrong?” I jumped to her side, panic clutching at my throat.
In an instant, she crumpled to the floor, her body going limp. “Clara!” I shouted, heart pounding. Did I just kill her by asking about Mark? My mind spiraled as I knelt beside her, desperate for a response.
Desperate for the Truth
“Stay with me, Clara!” I pleaded, shaking her gently. Her eyelids fluttered, but her gaze drifted away, her breathing shallow.
I could hear the distant sound of sirens approaching, but it felt like an eternity. “Clara, please, just… just tell me what happened with Mark. What truth?”
Her lips parted slightly, and she muttered, “The truth… the night of the accident…” Then, her body went still.
“No, no, Clara!” My heart hammered as I fumbled for my phone to call for help, but soon enough, I heard the paramedics rushing through the door.
They swept in, taking charge, and I felt helpless as they assessed her condition. “Is she going to be okay?” I asked, my voice shaky.
“We’ll do everything we can,” one of them replied, as they loaded her onto a stretcher.
As they wheeled her away, I noticed Clara’s phone sitting on the table. A wild impulse surged through me. With trembling hands, I grabbed it and quickly unlocked the screen.
Scrolling through her recent messages, a chill ran down my spine. Exchanges with Mark—dozens of them—filled with a mix of longing, guilt, and secrets. “I should have been there,” one message read. Another simply stated, “You have to tell her the truth.” My heart raced faster with every new revelation.
Finally, I paused on a recent thread, my heart thudding in my chest as I realized Clara had opened up about their plans before the hike. But it was the final message that made my breath hitch—a photograph attached, showing a beautiful letter, its edges folded neatly.
Just then, a shadow appeared in the doorway. Mark stood there, his face a mask of regret and determination. He stepped forward, holding a letter in his hands, a letter from Teresa. “I need you to read this,” he said, his voice shaking.
The world around me blurred as he handed it to me, and the weight of everything I thought I knew about my daughter crushed down on me. I felt like I was standing at the edge of an abyss, peering into the darkness below.