Emily always felt like she didnt belong in the little village of Ashbrook. Even as a child she was haunted by odd flashes a creaky old cottage smelling of smoke and apples, a darkhaired woman humming a lullaby, a man who would fling her onto the ceiling and laugh until the windows rattled. Her mother, Veronica, dismissed them as childish fantasies, but the memories only grew louder.
There were other doubts, too Veronicas fiery red hair and blue eyes didnt seem to match Emilys dark locks and brown eyes at all. Nobody ever mentioned her father.
When Veronica was struck down by cancer, she whispered on her deathbed, I stole you, love. As a tourist, Emily had felt the earth tremble beneath her feet. In the rubble shed found a tiny girl in polkadot dress the only living thing among the dead. Emily had no children of her own, so she took the little one home and raised her. I took your past, but I left you a name. Your mother was Eleanor, your father Ian.
Emily laughed it off until she spotted a yellowed photograph of a man and a woman whose faces seemed frighteningly familiar. A hollow ache settled inside her, driving her to dig deeper.
Far away in the Cotswolds, old Ian Thompson was battling a stubborn illness. He hid a bloodstained handkerchief from his ward, Arthur, the boy hed taken under his wing. Ian had promised his wife, Lydia, that he would wait for their lost daughter, Olivia, to return. Lydia, who once believed in fortunes and omens, died convinced her daughter was still alive. Guilt and hope weighed heavily on Ians heart.
Arthur urged him to seek treatment, but Ian stubbornly refused, insisting instead that he find a new partner and forget the vanished fiancée. Both men were bound by grief Arthur had lost his own father in the same earthquake that took Ians child.
Emily made up her mind. She bought a oneway ticket to the town where it all began, pocketing only an address and the faded photograph. In the taxi heading for the station, the driver went pale the moment he saw the picture, swerving as if the road itself were about to give way.
Excuse me, miss, whats your name? he asked, voice trembling.
Emily, she replied.
No, he sighed. Your real name is Olivia.
Emily froze. Coincidence, or fate?
A dying Ian sensed his last night approaching. He hoped to slip into sleep as peacefully as Lydia had. Yet sunrise found him awake frail, broken, yet waiting. The roar of a car and footsteps echoed down the hallway.
Uncle Vane, its me! shouted Arthur, adding, Im not alone! Ian assumed a doctor had arrived.
Instead, a young woman entered the room. Not Lydia though at first glance he thought he recognized her but his daughter. His Olivia, grown up, with the same dark eyes he remembered.
Emily now Olivia sat on the edge of the bed, tentatively brushing her hand over his. Ian, tears of relief spilling, stroked her cheek.
Child, he whispered. Youre finally home.
For a heartbeat the world seemed to stand still. A promise made long ago was finally kept.
