Chapter 19 : Does She Ever Remember She Has A Child ?

‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿ MAVERICK HOSPITAL,

FRONT ALLEY– AFTERNOON

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Nevena stepped out of Maverick Hospital . She stood for a moment under the pale awning, her fingers curled tightly around the small cup of orange juice Junior had given her.

She didn’t open it. She couldn’t—instead, she tucked it carefully into the canvas tote the nurse gave her.

Walking out of the gate , she flagged down a cab .

“Good day Mister”, she greeted. “4A New Oak Guest House—Drench Lane.”

“Hop in” the cab man invited her in a humble tone.

‿‿‿‿

20 MINUTES LATER

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The cab idled as it took the Drench lane— Nevena stared out of the window as her guest house loomed ahead.

The cab slowed in front of the guest house, its tires crunching softly against the gravel drive.

“Here we are,” the driver announced , killing the engine.

Nevena didn’t answer, rather her grip tightened around the tote in her lap,

This was the place. The same house where she was kidnapped—where her screams had gone unheard.

“You okay, miss?” The driver asked, glancing at her through the rearview mirror.

Nevena gave a small nod, her hand hovering over the door handle.

She finally stepped out, her eyes tracing the familiar edges of the building—

The door of the cab shut behind her like a final warning.

With a low hum, the cab pulled away, leaving her alone on the curb.

She stood still. The tote bag on her shoulder suddenly felt heavier. She gripped the strap, grounding herself.

Apart from the few overgrown flowers, nothing else appeared to have changed, but Nevena's body remembered the difference.

The last time she stood here, she didn’t get to walk through the door.

Bracing herself—she took one step forward but then stopped.

> What if they were watching again?

What if she stepped inside... and never walked out?

With all the thoughts running through her head, her feet refused to carry her further.

“Nevena Bachvarov?”

A voice cut through the quiet chaos in her head.

She turned, her instinct plummeting.

A man in uniform, approached from across the street— out of a discreet booth.

His steel badge glinted briefly beneath the afternoon sun.

“You’re the Bulgarian tourist, Right?” he asked in his Mexican accent.

Nevena's fingers tightened around the tote strap. “…Yes.”

The man nodded once, then reached into his jacket, drawing out a small silver key attached to a tag.

“Drench lane patrol Police” the man introduced in a clip tone,

“We’ve updated your locks,” he added, offering her the key. “You’re secure now.”

Nevena hesitated, relief and doubt colliding inside her chest.

“Detective Ma’am ordered extra patrols around this neighborhood.” The man cleared the air, as if he knew what was going on in her head.

“Mrs Stewart?” Nevena stammered, her breath caught in her throat.

“Oh yes—She specifically mentioned your name. Something about prioritizing international guests and tourist safety—particularly yours”

“She's so weird” Nevena mumbled, finally taking the key.

“That's what everyone says” the man chipped in. He subtly gestured behind him.

“There’s a new surveillance hub just off the main intersection. Facial rec, motion alerts, direct line to our tactical team. Your door’s being watched—every entrance, actually.”

Nevena's eyes scanned the street— then she saw it—The newly constructed security pit, barely twenty feet away.

It was a small, sleek outpost—with steel fencing. A pair of uniformed police men moved with purpose around its proximity.

A sign read: “Drench Lane Security Pit – 24/7 Surveillance.”

Nevena let out a slow breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “That's so thoughtful of her”.

The man let out a subtle smile “One more thing Miss—you’ll notice cameras at both ends of the block,” he nodded to a mounted unit just above a streetlamp.

“We do run overnight rotation in case you hear footsteps and flashes.”

“…Why all this—isn't it...a little too much?” Nevena asked softly.

The man paused—not like he didn’t know, but like he was choosing what not to say.

Breanna had figured that if Nevena was to face the media— things might spew out of control. Her superiors won’t be pleased with how she mishandled a tourist—hence she acted first.

“Nothing, actually” the man dipped his head slightly.

“You’re clear to enter. If anything feels wrong, call the pit immediately. Your number’s flagged for priority.”

“Thank you—Mister,” Nevena acknowledged with a small nod.

“Sure thing...Miss” He stepped back, granting her passage. “Have a nice day”.

She adjusted the strap of her tote and crossed the short yard to the door.

The porch creaked under her feet, but she didn’t flinch.

She slipped the key into the new lock and it turned effortlessly.

No dramatic collapse—no gasping. Just a quiet click.

She tilted her head toward the Police man. He caught her eye and offered her a nod—just the one that said 'We’re here'.

She pushed the door open and stepped inside. Then, without hesitation, slammed it shut behind her.

‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿

MAVERICK HOSPITAL—NIGHT

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The world outside the hospital's window had already turned dark—Inside, most of the rooms had their doors pulled shut.

The corridor and hallways buzzed softly with low intercom murmurs—Activities had just entered its hush-hour.

Methodically, the shuffle of staffs began, day-shift nurses were replaced with quieter faces, softer voices, and slower movements.

Junior was still there. Slouched on his wheelchair, exactly where he’d been all day.

His backpack rested beside his wheels like a loyal dog, untouched and full of snacks he no longer had the appetite for.

He’d stopped looking toward the elevator hours ago. She wasn’t coming. He let the hard realization settle upon him.

Every once in a while, a nurse would pass and offer a soft smile or a hesitant,

“Hey, sweetheart, you okay?”

He’d just nod.

He was good at nodding. Good at waiting. Good at pretending.

His gaze dropped to the folded sheet of paper on his lap—his discharge file.

At first, he'd hope it meant something to her. That it would make her come.

But she didn’t.

Not in the morning. Not at lunch. Not when the sun began to slip behind the windows.

And not now.

She said she’d be here.

Again.

“I should’ve known.” he muttered under his breath. The words were sharp but whispered like a secret—meant for no one but himself.

He pressed his head back against the wall, blinking up at the ceiling quietly. The kind of silence that hurt filled his chest. Not anger. Not panic.

But what hurt more—was when she said goodbye.

The foreign aunty—she smiled and promised he'd be okay, gently patted his bag like a grown-up who cared.

And then…just like everyone else, she walked out those big glass doors despite assuring him that she was different from everyone else.

Junior shook his head—perhaps she probably thought his mother would come for him.

But just like always, she didn’t.

Slowly he shifted, hugging his casted leg to his chest as best as he could.

His hoodie slid off one shoulder, but he didn’t bother fixing it. He just curled tighter, making himself smaller and —less noticeable.

She was different. At least, he thought she was.

She sat with him without making it weird. She didn’t treat him like a problem or an order. She didn’t force conversation. She just stayed.

But now—she is gone too. Leaving behind the echoing ache of loneliness.

“Junior?” a familiar voice called.

Junior blinked and turned his head slightly.

It was Sophia, his mother's aide.

Her hospital gown fluttered gently around her ankles, and her face looked thinner than usual.

She coughed into her elbow as she approached him, her IV pole wheeling beside her.

Her breath was raspy, lungs still recovering from the smoke, but her presence was familiar—warm, like a Nanny, the role which she cheerfully played except that she was hospitalized.

“Hi Aunt” came Junior's voice, low and worn. Sophia gave him a tired smile.

“There you are—my boy” she said gently, reaching for his small hand. “Come on, sweetheart. Come stay with me for a while, there’s space.”

Junior didn’t blink, neither did he take her hand.

He just stared at them, like it was a question he didn’t know how to answer.

Sophia studied his countenance—his eyes were wide with fatigue, an aloofness too much for a six year old.

She sighed—easing onto the bench beside him, letting the silence stretch. She didn’t scold, nor ask again.

Amidst the silence she pulled his small head gently toward her—her fingers brushing slowly through his curls—soft and motherly.

“You know she loves you,” Sophia whispered, pressing a light kiss to his cheek, the way she always had.

Junior didn’t say anything.

He just sat there, breathing as quietly as he could, afraid if he leaned into too much, the lump in his throat would escape.

“She probably meant to be here, baby,” she continued, “But—mama probably got caught up with something”.

“Work—?” Junior's voice cracked out.

“Does she ever remember she has a child ?” He lifted his eyes, meeting Sophia's own, which were still a little pink from her oxygen therapy

“Should that even be a question”, Sophia murmured, like she believed it. “You know how things can get—grown-ups sometimes get stuck in the mess they make.”

Junior knew she was lying to make him feel better—without arguing he stared down at the floor.

“Let’s go to my ward,” she said after a momentary silence. “Just for tonight. I’ve got extra cot and a few story books. You know—the nurses won’t mind.”

Junior pulled away by a beat, His eyes were already burning, and he could feel the sting rising behind them like a wave.

“Junior!” Sophia coaxed, reaching for his hair again, but he brushed her hand off—his little chest rising faster now.

“No Aunt” He shook his head, his voice scratchy and quiet.

“I’m okay,” he pressed on, even though his voice broke on the second syllable.

Sophia swallowed hard, fighting her own tears. “Baby—I understand you, it’s alright to be upset.”

Junior shook his head again—faster this time—he reached for his chair handles, careful with the casted leg.

Turning himself around, he began wheeling slowly down the hallway—back toward his own room. Alone.

Sophia didn’t stop him. She just watched with an aching heart—his tiny back stiff, shoulders too square for someone so small, bottling their emotions.

He didn’t say goodnight , and when he reached the door to his room, he slipped inside and closed it gently behind him, leaving the hallway—and Sophia’s soothing words—behind.