The room was empty.

The bed was made with military precision, as if no one had ever slept in it.

The wardrobe doors stood wide open, displaying only a few designer dresses Callahan and the Cole family had forced upon her—garments she had barely touched. Her own modest, everyday clothes were completely gone.

The vanity was bare. The jewelry they had gifted her remained untouched in their velvet boxes, glittering coldly under the recessed lighting.

She hadn't taken a thing.

Except for herself.

Callahan surveyed the room, his gaze finally locking onto the wastebasket in the corner. There were torn pieces of photo paper inside. He strode over, crouching with a jagged, impatient motion to piece them together.

It was the only photo they had ever taken together.

Five years ago, shortly after she arrived at the Cole estate, they had been dragged to a family gala. She had stood beside him, timid and fragile, trying her best to offer a practiced smile for the cameras. In that photo, her eyes had still held a glimmer of hope.

Now, she had shredded the memory with her own hands and discarded it like refuse.

Callahan’s knuckles turned white. The sharp edges of the paper sliced into his fingertips, but he felt nothing. He lunged toward the nightstand and yanked open the drawer.

Only a few books remained. He flipped through them, finding nothing. Refusing to accept the void she had left, he pulled open the bottom drawer.

An old, rusted tin box sat quietly in the corner.

Callahan’s heart hammered against his ribs. He withdrew the box, his hands steadying as he pried the lid open.

There wasn't much inside, but every item felt like a blade twisting in his chest.

On top was a shriveled, yellowed wrapper from a wet wipe. He stared at it for a few seconds before the memory flooded back. It was from the day she arrived at the Cole estate. She had been overwhelmed, her shoes caked in mud, and he had reached down, cleaning the dirt from her heels with cold, dismissive efficiency. He had tossed the wrapper aside without a second thought.

She had kept it. All this time.

Beneath it lay a faded, cheap crystal bracelet.

It was the first birthday gift he had begrudgingly given her. Back then, he had been consumed by the bitterness of Alexandria Rodriguez being forced to leave, and he had projected that frustration onto Maya. He’d grabbed the bracelet at the mall without a second thought, not even glancing at the style. Yet, she had treated it like a treasure, wearing it until the chain snapped, at which point she had wept in secret.

So, this was where she had hidden her solace.

Under the bracelet was a piece of paper, crumpled and then carefully smoothed out. Callahan picked it up, and after a single glance, his blood ran cold.

It was an ultrasound report.

*Name: Maya Cole. Diagnosis: Early intrauterine pregnancy, approximately 6 weeks.*

At the bottom was the surgeon’s signature. Along the edges were dark, dried tear stains that had blurred the ink.

Callahan could barely hold the paper. He remembered her calm, hollow acceptance when he demanded she get rid of the child. He remembered her walking into the clinic alone, and the way she had told him, "It's unnecessary," when he checked on her afterward.

She hadn't been indifferent at all.

She had simply buried the pain, only to eventually tear it apart with her own hands.

At the very bottom of the box lay a thick, leather-bound diary.

Callahan took a ragged breath and opened it. The earlier entries were written just after she had arrived at the Cole family. Every line was filled with anxiety about her new life, a desperate, cautious hunger for love, and secret, unspoken feelings for him.

*Callahan smiled at me today. It was faint, but I was happy for hours.*

*Mom complimented Alexandria's dress today. I have one like it, but she didn't even look at me. It's okay. I'll take it slow.*

*Callahan likes pour-over coffee. I learned how to brew it in secret, hoping to make some for him one day.*

*Alexandria is gone, and my parents and Callahan are devastated. Is it my fault? But I’m their daughter, aren't I?*

*He’s staring at a picture of Alexandria again. Will I ever be able to replace her?*

As he flipped further, the handwriting grew erratic, the despair more suffocating.

*They said, 'Bring Alexandria back.' I saw the look he gave her, and I knew—I’ve lost. I’ve lost everything.*

*I'm pregnant. But his first reaction was to have it removed. Because Alexandria would be upset. What about me? What about our baby?*

*He said, 'I'll pay five thousand for that slap.' Callahan Meyer, you are truly heartless.*

*Taking the fall for Alexandria Rodriguez. Fine. Let's make a clean break of it.*

The final page was dated today. It contained only one line, written with such force that it had nearly shredded the paper:

*"Today, I finally get to leave. Dad, Mom, Callahan—goodbye. No, goodbye forever."*

Drop.

A warm liquid splashed onto the diary, blurring the ink.

Callahan stood there, stunned, raising a hand to his face. He felt the cold, damp sensation against his skin.

He was crying.

He was weeping for the woman he had pushed away, left broken, and who was now lost to him forever.