Chapter 157: Safe Room...

The house felt different when Amelia was not in it.

Sylvia had noticed it the moment she returned from Brighton Memorial Hospital with Stella and Mr. Winston, but she had tried not to think about it. She had told herself that Amelia was receiving the care she needed, that the doctors were doing everything they could, and that there was no point in letting fear consume her before she had any real answers.

Yet the moment she stepped through the front door, the familiar surroundings seemed strangely unfamiliar.

The living room looked exactly as it always had. The cushions were arranged neatly on the sofa, the curtains hung beside the tall windows, and the television remained switched off. A faint scent of furniture polish lingered in the air, mixed with the smell of the dinner Stella had prepared earlier.

Nothing had changed.

Except Amelia was gone.

Sylvia stood near the entrance for a moment, her fingers curled around the strap of her bag. She could still remember the way she had hurried into Brighton Memorial, Amelia’s bag hanging from her hand as she made her way toward the ward. She had expected to find Amelia in bed, perhaps asleep, perhaps awake and irritated with her for arriving late. She had even prepared herself for another difficult conversation about Amelia’s memories and the relationship she could no longer remember.

Instead, she had found an empty room.

No Amelia.

No explanation.

And no one who could tell her where the woman she loved had gone.

The memory tightened something in her chest. She lowered her eyes, forcing herself to take a slow breath before moving farther into the living room.

Stella had gone to the kitchen with Mr. Winston to speak with the housekeeper about dinner. They had both encouraged Sylvia to eat something, but she had declined. She knew they were worried about her, yet she had no appetite. The thought of sitting at the dining table, surrounded by food she would barely touch, was more exhausting than simply going upstairs.

She wanted to be alone.

Not because she wanted to shut everyone out, but because she no longer knew how to explain what she was feeling.

How could she tell them that the uncertainty was becoming unbearable? That she could accept Amelia forgetting her, even though it hurt, but she did not know how to endure not knowing whether Amelia was safe?

She could deal with the questions about their relationship. She could answer Amelia whenever she asked how they had met, how long they had been together, or why Sylvia seemed so unwilling to leave her side. She could sit beside her girlfriend and patiently tell her their story, even if Amelia looked at her as though she were a stranger.

At least then, she would know Amelia was there.

Now, she had nothing to hold on to.

Sylvia placed her bag on the armchair and sat down slowly. The leather cushion shifted beneath her weight, making a faint sound in the quiet room. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, and pressed her palms together.

She had to do something.

She could not spend the rest of her life sitting in the living room, waiting for someone to tell her where Amelia was. There had to be another way to find her, another person she could speak to, or some explanation she had not considered.

But every possibility she thought of seemed to lead back to the same unanswered question.

Where was Amelia?

Sylvia rubbed her forehead and let out a tired breath.

She had never imagined that she would have to search for her own girlfriend.

A few days ago, Amelia had been in a hospital bed, looking at her with unfamiliar eyes. Sylvia had been terrified then, too, but at least she could reach for her hand. She could sit beside her, talk to her, and remind her that she was not alone.

Now, she could not even do that.

She lifted her head when she heard footsteps approaching from the hallway.

For a moment, she thought Stella had returned, but the sound came from the staircase instead. Someone was coming down, their steps light and unhurried.

Sylvia turned toward the entrance to the living room just as Janina appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

Janina was dressed neatly, her hair arranged as though she had taken time to prepare herself before coming downstairs. She paused when she noticed Sylvia sitting alone, and a small smile spread across her face.

The expression was brief, almost private. She seemed pleased to have found Sylvia there.

Then she began walking toward her.

Sylvia watched her approach without much interest. She was too tired to make conversation, and the last thing she wanted was to pretend everything was normal when nothing about her life felt normal anymore.

Janina stopped a short distance away, her smile widening.

"Hey, Sylvia, it’s—"

Sylvia stood up.

The movement was sudden enough to interrupt Janina mid-sentence. She did not explain herself or wait to hear what Janina wanted to say. She simply picked up her bag from the armchair and turned toward the staircase.

"Sylvia?"

Janina’s voice followed her, carrying a note of surprise.

Sylvia kept walking.

She heard Janina shift her weight behind her, perhaps expecting her to turn around or offer some explanation, but Sylvia had nothing to say to her. Not tonight.

She was not in the mood to entertain anyone, answer questions, or exchange polite words. She did not have the strength to arrange a pleasant expression on her face and pretend she was doing well.

She was barely holding herself together as it was.

"Sylvia, I was talking to you."

This time, Janina sounded more confused than amused.

Sylvia’s fingers tightened around the strap of her bag. She reached the staircase and began climbing, one step after another, keeping her eyes fixed ahead.

She did not look back.

Behind her, Janina remained in the living room, watching her disappear up the stairs.

For a moment, Janina said nothing.

She had clearly expected a different reaction. Perhaps she had thought Sylvia would stop and listen, or perhaps she had something she wanted to tell her. Whatever it was, Sylvia could not bring herself to care.

She continued up the stairs until the living room fell out of sight.

The hallway was quiet. A few wall lights illuminated the polished floor, leaving the corners dim. The soft glow reflected against the framed photographs hanging along the walls, photographs of people smiling at occasions Sylvia could barely remember without thinking of Amelia.

She slowed as she passed them.

One photograph showed Amelia laughing at something outside the frame, her head tilted slightly to one side. Her eyes were bright, and her smile was so natural that Sylvia could almost hear the sound of her laughter.

Sylvia stopped.

She stared at the photograph longer than she intended to.

There was no way to know what Amelia would think if she saw it now. Would she recognize herself? Would she wonder why she looked so happy? Would she ask Sylvia who had taken the picture?

Or would she look at it without feeling anything at all?

Sylvia swallowed and forced herself to move.

She could not stand there all night, studying pictures and wondering whether the woman in them still existed somewhere inside Amelia’s mind.

She reached the end of the hallway and stopped before a familiar door.

Amelia’s room.

It was the only place she wanted to be at that moment.

Sylvia stood with her hand on the handle. For several seconds, she did not turn it. She could already imagine the room on the other side, the bed neatly made, the curtains drawn, and the faint trace of Amelia’s presence lingering in the air.

She knew it would hurt to go inside.

But staying out here, staring at a closed door, hurt too.

She pressed the handle down and pushed the door open.

The room was dim, lit only by the soft light coming through the curtains. The bedside lamp remained switched off, and the shadows of the furniture stretched across the floor. Everything was in its usual place. The small table stood beside the bed, the wardrobe doors were closed, and a book Amelia had left behind rested near the edge of the desk.

Sylvia stepped inside.

The door closed quietly behind her.

Then she breathed in.

Amelia’s scent lingered in the room, faint but unmistakable to Sylvia. It clung to the bedding and the pillow, blending with the clean smell of freshly washed sheets. There was something familiar about it that Sylvia could never have explained to anyone who did not know Amelia the way she did.

It was not simply the scent of her perfume.

It was Amelia.

The thought struck Sylvia with such force that she stopped moving.

For a brief moment, she could almost imagine that Amelia was still there. She could picture her sitting on the bed with her legs folded beneath her, looking up with that particular expression she wore whenever Sylvia said something she considered ridiculous.

Sylvia could almost hear her asking why she was standing in the doorway instead of coming inside.

But the room remained silent.

There was no movement beneath the blanket, no familiar voice calling her name, and no warm hand reaching for hers.

Amelia was not there.

Sylvia closed her eyes.

She had spent the entire evening trying to remain composed. She had listened to the doctors, spoken with the hospital staff, and followed Stella and Mr. Winston home because she knew they were worried about her. She had answered questions as best she could and tried to think practically, even when every answer left her with another problem.

She had held herself together because she believed she needed to.

Now there was no one in the room to see her struggle.

No one to reassure. No one to tell her that she was being strong.

Her lips trembled.

A tear slipped down her cheek before she could stop it. She wiped it away quickly, almost impatiently, but another followed. Within seconds, her vision blurred, and she could no longer pretend that she was all right.

"Why?" she whispered.