SEVEN

Hazel thought she’d wake up the next morning, eat baked beans on toast at the small wooden table, listen to Daniel arguing with Jackson over chores, and watch Marie hum as she washed dishes. She thought life would always stay like that.

But that evening ended everything.

The men didn’t leave this time. They came with papers, with authority, with the weight of someone powerful enough to crush Jackson’s protests like ants.

“Hazel is not your daughter,” the tall one said again, his tone final. “She belongs to Mr. Edwin. We are here to bring her home.”

“Home?” Marie’s voice broke, trembling. “This is her home. She’s mine. You can’t just…”

Another man stepped forward, placing official documents on the table. Stamped, signed, full of words Hazel didn’t understand. Jackson picked them up, his face red with fury as he tried to read through the blur of legal jargon.

“You think a piece of paper can erase eighteen years?” Jackson roared. “You think money can just buy a child? She’s not going anywhere!”

The men didn’t argue. They simply stood firm, like shadows that couldn’t be moved. And Hazel, frozen at the corner of the room, felt her world tilting.

“Hazel.” Marie’s hands clutched her shoulders tightly. “You’re not leaving me, do you hear me? You’re not.”

But Hazel’s eyes filled with tears, because she saw what Marie didn’t want to admit: this wasn’t a request. It was a decision already made.

When the men finally pulled her away, Marie screamed. Daniel tried to fight, swinging his fists at the men, but one shove sent him crashing into the wall. Jackson shouted until his voice cracked, but his hands were empty, his power nothing against theirs.

Hazel’s sobs tore through her throat as she reached back, reaching for her mother, her father, her brother. “Mama! Papa! Daniel!”

“Hazel!” Marie lunged forward, clawing, desperate, but Jackson had to hold her back or she would’ve been hurt too. Daniel fought against his father’s grip, tears streaking his face.

Hazel was shoved into the black car, the door slamming shut with a finality that felt like the end of her life.

---

The Ride

The engine roared. The streets blurred. Hazel pressed her forehead to the cold glass window, her tears streaking down faster than the lights outside. Every turn they took was one more step away from her world.

She thought of the Jackson house, their low roof, the peeling paint, the smell of Marie’s cooking that lingered in the curtains. The creak of the old wooden floor complained every time Jackson walked across it. Daniel’s laughter echoes from his small room.

It wasn’t much. It was never much. But it was hers.

Now, she was being stolen.

The men in the front didn’t speak. Their eyes stayed on the road, hands steady, movements practiced. Hazel wondered how many times they’d done this before, how many lives they had ripped apart with the same cold silence.

She whispered to herself, “Charles… Daniel… Mama…” like repeating their names could anchor her to them.

But the further they drove, the more it felt like those names were slipping out of reach.

---

The Mansion

The car finally slowed, turning past tall iron gates. Hazel sat up straighter, her breath caught in her chest.

The mansion rose before her like something out of a dream or a nightmare.

The walls were high, painted in pristine white that glowed under the moonlight. Columns stretched skyward, windows gleamed with golden light, and a sprawling garden surrounded it all. The driveway was smooth stone, not dirt. Fountains sparkled at the entrance.

It was too big. Too polished. Too perfect.

The car stopped, and Hazel stepped out on shaky legs. The air smelled different here: roses, trimmed grass, and expensive perfume lingering in the walls. Everything was quiet. Too quiet.

Her sandals tapped against the marble steps as the men led her inside.

And that was when it hit her.

A wave of familiarity.

Hazel froze. Her head spun as her eyes scanned the grand foyer, the wide staircase curling upward, the chandelier dripping crystals, the heavy velvet curtains.

She had seen this before.

Not here, not like this, but in fragments, shadows of memory that didn’t belong to the Jackson bungalow. She was too young to place it, but her bones remembered. Her skin remembered.

The men didn’t notice her hesitation. They pulled her further inside, their voices blending into the hum of luxury. But Hazel’s eyes darted from corner to corner, trying to match each detail with the flickers in her head.

A hand on hers. A woman’s laugh. A soft carpet under her feet. Then gone.

It was like a ghost whispering, You’ve been here before.

Hazel tried to hold on to the memory of her old home, but the mansion swallowed it whole.

The Jackson bungalow was small, just three rooms and a parlor. The walls were patched with paint where water had leaked. The kitchen smelled of smoke from the kerosene stove. The floor was uneven cement, and Hazel’s bed squeaked every time she rolled over.

It was warm. It was loud. It was messy. But it was love.

This mansion was the opposite.

The walls stretched endlessly, polished and unblemished. The chandeliers sparkled like frozen stars. The carpets were thick enough to bury her toes. Paintings of stern-faced men and women lined the halls, watching her with cold, painted eyes.

The kitchen here didn’t smell of beans or smoke, it smelled of nothing, too clean, too perfect.

Her chest ached.

How could anyone call this home?

They led her upstairs to a bedroom bigger than the entire Jackson bungalow. A king-sized bed draped in silk sheets. A wardrobe taller than her. A vanity stocked with perfumes and jewelry. Curtains heavy enough to block out the world.

Hazel stepped inside slowly, her sandals sinking into the thick rug. She touched the edge of the bed, her fingers trembling.

It was beautiful. It was everything she used to see only in magazines and movies.

And she hated it.

She sank to the floor, curling her arms around herself, rocking back and forth as silent sobs shook her.

She could still hear Marie’s scream. She could still see Daniel struggling against Jackson’s grip. She could still taste the dust from the ground when she was dragged away.

And all she had now was silence.

Hazel lay awake that night in the strange bed, staring at the ceiling, clutching a necklace Marie had given her. The silk sheets felt suffocating, the silence unbearable.

The mansion might’ve been grand, but Hazel knew the truth: she’d traded a home full of love for a palace full of strangers.

And deep inside, where memory flickered like dying light, the sense of déjà-vu lingered.

She had been here before.

But when?

And why?