The house was still. Late evening filtered through the windows in soft orange light, casting long shadows across the family portraits lining the walls—photos of Celeste through the years. Or… the girl everyone believed was Celeste.
Elise sat at the dining table, a cup of untouched tea in her hands, eyes fixed on a single photo near the fireplace. The real Celeste. Age ten. Smiling, gap-toothed, with her hair in wild curls and a bandage on her chin from climbing the garden wall.
She hadn't looked like that in a long time.
Jean entered the room quietly, loosened his tie, and placed a hand on Elise's shoulder.
"She's not our daughter," Elise whispered.
Jean didn't flinch. He had heard those words a hundred times.
"She doesn't know that," he said.
"But we do."
Elise finally took a sip of the tea. It had gone cold.
"I keep thinking," she said, "what if someone finds out? What if—what if she starts remembering? What if the truth breaks her?"
Jean sat down across from her. His face was lined with exhaustion. "She came to us with nothing. No memory. No family. Whoever she was… she's not that girl anymore."
Elise looked at him. "So that makes it okay?"
Jean was quiet.
They had buried the truth six months ago, when the girl showed up in tatters, rescued by someone else, unable to remember even her name. Rhea had brought her to them. Said she looked just like their missing daughter.
And she did.
Almost.
The resemblance was uncanny. But not perfect.
They knew it in their bones.
Still, the story was easy to sell. An amnesiac heir. A miracle return. The media loved it. The city embraced it. And for the first time since their daughter vanished… the house was full again.
Elise's voice broke the silence. "I tucked her in after the night out. She was half-asleep. Called me 'Mama'."
Jean's expression softened.
"I didn't correct her," Elise added, blinking fast.
"You didn't have to."
They both knew the truth.
And they both knew they'd keep lying.
Because whatever this girl's name once was—whatever dark place she came from—now she was Celeste.
And they weren't going to lose a daughter twice.
The house was still. Late evening filtered through the windows in soft orange light, casting long shadows across the family portraits lining the walls—photos of Celeste through the years. Or… the girl everyone believed was Celeste.
Elise sat at the dining table, a cup of untouched tea in her hands, eyes fixed on a single photo near the fireplace. The real Celeste. Age ten. Smiling, gap-toothed, with her hair in wild curls and a bandage on her chin from climbing the garden wall.
She hadn't looked like that in a long time.
Jean entered the room quietly, loosened his tie, and placed a hand on Elise's shoulder.
"She's not our daughter," Elise whispered.
Jean didn't flinch. He had heard those words a hundred times.
"She doesn't know that," he said.
"But we do."
Elise finally took a sip of the tea. It had gone cold.
"I keep thinking," she said, "what if someone finds out? What if—what if she starts remembering? What if the truth breaks her?"
Jean sat down across from her. His face was lined with exhaustion. "She came to us with nothing. No memory. No family. Whoever she was… she's not that girl anymore."
Elise looked at him. "So that makes it okay?"
Jean was quiet.
They had buried the truth six months ago, when the girl showed up in tatters, rescued by someone else, unable to remember even her name. Rhea had brought her to them. Said she looked just like their missing daughter.
And she did.
Almost.
The resemblance was uncanny. But not perfect.
They knew it in their bones.
Still, the story was easy to sell. An amnesiac heir. A miracle return. The media loved it. The city embraced it. And for the first time since their daughter vanished… the house was full again.
Elise's voice broke the silence. "I tucked her in after the night out. She was half-asleep. Called me 'Mama'."
Jean's expression softened.
"I didn't correct her," Elise added, blinking fast.
"You didn't have to."
They both knew the truth.
And they both knew they'd keep lying.
Because whatever this girl's name once was—whatever dark place she came from—now she was Celeste.
And they weren't going to lose a daughter twice.