My husband sent me a beautiful dress and called to ask if I liked it. In that moment, in a fit of resentment, I could only complain with a single sentence.

“Your sister took it.”

But on the other end of the line, he screamed like a madman. A sentence that to this day, after so many years, still haunts me like a knife twisting in my gut.

“You’ve killed my sister.”

My name is Sophia. I’m 30 years old, and I’ve been married to Matthew for nearly 3 years. My life as a daughter-in-law is probably like that of many other women. I’ve tasted both the sweet and the bitter. My husband’s family isn’t fabulously wealthy, but they are among the most wellto-do in this part of coastal Connecticut. The house has three occupants. my mother-in-law Helen, my husband, Matt, and my husband’s younger sister, Clare.

Everything would be perfectly normal if it weren’t for the extraordinarily special existence of Clare.

Clare, my sister-in-law, is 5 years younger than me. She possesses a fragile smoke-like beauty, pale skin, long hair, and eyes that always seem to be on the verge of tears. But that fragility isn’t just external, it’s physical as well. My mother-in-law says that since she was a child, Clare has suffered from a strange illness, a monstrous allergy to most common fabrics. If just one foreign fiber touches her skin, the girl can break out in rashes, have trouble breathing, and even suffer seizures. Because of this, the entire family protects her as if she were a porcelain treasure, easily shattered. Everything in the house, from her clothes to her bed sheets, must be customordered from a special type of silk, incredibly expensive and hard to find.

My life in that house, to be fair, has been a succession of days filled with patience and restraint. My mother-in-law, Helen, is a sharp, authoritarian woman. She loves her daughter to the point of blindness. All the best things in the house are for Clare. As for me, a newly arrived daughter-in-law, in her eyes, I seem to be just a stranger, someone who has come to serve this family. The food I cook is never to her taste. The house I clean is never clean enough for her. Even the way I breathe seems to displease her. Those phrases became the familiar refrain of my life.

“Sophia, walk more slowly. You’ll startle Clare.”

“Sophia, speak more softly. Clare is resting.”

My husband, Matt, is a completely different person. He is kind, soft-spoken, and always treats me very well. Every time his mother scolded me, he would quietly enter the room, take my hand, and comfort me.

“Honey, don’t be upset. Mom just worries too much about Clare. Just be a little patient, okay?”

He’s like a soft cushion, helping me absorb the blows from my mother-in-law. But slowly, I realize that he is only a cushion. He has never been a solid shield. He can soothe my sadness, but he has never dared to defend me in front of his mother and sister. His love for me is real, but the affection and protection he dedicates to Clare are immeasurably greater.

And then the fateful day arrived.

It was our second wedding anniversary. Matt was away on a business trip. I thought he had forgotten, but in the afternoon, a courier delivered a beautiful gift box. I opened it, and my heart seemed to stop for a moment. Inside was a silk dress, the color of jade green, soft and cool to the touch. The design was simple but incredibly elegant. I knew it was the same type of expensive silk the family usually used for Clare. It was the first time since we’d been married that Matt had given me such a valuable and refined gift.

I hugged the dress to my chest, feeling a wave of happiness wash over me. Maybe he still remembered. Maybe I still held an important place in his heart. I took the dress to my room and happily tried it on in front of the mirror. The dress seemed tailorade for me. It perfectly enhanced my skin and figure. I thought that for once I could wear it out with him to somewhere romantic, but I was wrong.

Just as I was leaving my room, Clare was coming down the stairs. She saw the dress I was wearing and her eyes glinted in a strange way. She didn’t say anything, just walked over and with her thin, trembling hand, lightly brushed the fabric of the dress.

At that exact moment, my mother-in-law came out of the kitchen, saw the scene, and her face immediately darkened. She rushed over, pushed Clare’s hand away, and turned to me with a sharp voice.

“Sophia, who gave you permission to wear that dress? Can’t you see Clare likes it? Why don’t you have a little more consideration?”

I was frozen, unable to explain as she snatched the dress from my hands and placed it in Clare’s arms.

“Here, my dear. If you like it, put it on. Your sister-in-law has plenty of nice clothes. She won’t miss this one.”

I stood petrified in the middle of the living room as if a bucket of ice water had been thrown over me. The dress was a gift from my husband, my anniversary gift. But in my mother-in-law’s eyes, it was just something she could take from me at will to please her daughter. Clare clutched the dress with an expression of faint remorse. But then she turned silently and went up to her room, leaving me alone with a lump of humiliation in my throat.

That night, I couldn’t eat a single bite at dinner. I sat alone in my room, staring at the empty box, and tears began to well up.

Just then, the phone rang. It was Matt. His voice on the other end of the line was unusually warm and tender.

“Hello, my love. Did you get my gift?”

Hearing his voice, all the frustration pent up inside me overflowed. I tried to hold back my sobs and answered in a whisper.

“Yes, I got it. It’s beautiful, but I don’t think it was meant for me.”

Matt asked, surprised.

“Why do you say that? Don’t you like it?”

Without thinking, I complained exactly how I felt, a complaint tinged with a wife’s peak.

“Your sister saw it and took it from me. Mom told me to give it to her, too. How could I say no?”

I thought he would comfort me as he always did, say sweet things to calm me down. But no. A silence of several seconds on the other end of the line made me uneasy.

Suddenly, he screamed. A crazed, furious, panic-filled scream. His voice was no longer that of the kind husband I knew. It transformed into the roar of a wounded beast.

“What did you say? She took it. You’ve killed her. You’ve killed my sister.”

That scream was like a lightning bolt that split me in two. I was stunned. My ears were ringing. The phone slipped from my hands and hit the floor with a thud. My entire world crumbled in that instant. Killed. What had I done? Just because of a dress? Why would he say such terrible words? What was the secret behind that dress? Behind his family?

Matt’s scream through the phone wasn’t just a sound. It was a tangible object, an invisible hammer that struck my mind with brute force. I lost my balance. My body swayed and my head spun in a nameless chaos. Killed. Who had I killed? Over a dress. I had become a murderer. According to my own husband, I hadn’t even had time to recover, to pick up the phone lying inert on the cold floor, when from the main entrance, the screech of brakes tore through the silent night. The iron gate was pushed open with brutal violence, creating a terrifying crash. Then the sound of footsteps, not someone walking quickly, but someone running desperately. The pounding of shoes on the patio tiles sounded like war drums.

Before I could understand what was happening, a figure burst into the house like a whirlwind. It was Matt, but not the Matt I knew. His hair was disheveled, his workshirt rumpled, and his eyes, my god. His eyes were bloodshot, criss-crossed with red veins like a crazed wild animal. He didn’t look at me, even though I was standing right in front of him. His gaze swept the living room and then he lunged up the stairs toward Clare’s room. He shoved me aside, a heedless push that made me stagger and nearly fall.

Horrified, I followed him up, my steps feeling like lead. From Clare’s room, the desperate whales of my mother-in-law were already audible.

“Clare, my baby, what’s wrong with you? Wake up, please.”

When I reached the doorway, a gruesome scene froze me to the spot. Clare, my fragile sister-in-law, was curled up on the floor, convulsing. Beside her lay the crumpled jade green dress. Her entire body was shaking in spasms. Her eyes were rolled back, lifeless, and white foam was bubbling from the corner of her lips. My mother-in-law was kneeling beside her, pounding the floor with her fists while frantically shaking her daughter. Her face was bathed in tears mixed with an infinite rage.

Seeing me at the door, Helen reacted like a wild animal spotting its enemy. She leaped up and lunged at me, her eyes burning with hatred.

“You, you witch. You did this to my daughter. You came to this house to kill her, didn’t you?”

She screamed, raising her hand to slap me, but Matt stopped her just in time. He didn’t stop her to protect me, but to restrain his mother.

“Mom, calm down. We have to call an ambulance. We need to get her to the hospital now.”

I stood there, my feet rooted to the floor. My mind was a blank, unable to think. What the hell was happening? Why was Clare like this? The dress? Yes, it was all because of the dress. But a dress can’t cause harm. It’s not poison or a dagger. What did I do wrong? I only received a gift. A gift my own husband had sent me.

Amid the chaos, Matt lifted Clare into his arms. The girl was still convulsing, her body limp in her brother’s arms. Helen ran after them, relentlessly cursing me with the most venomous words.

“Snake, viper, get out of my house. Cursed be the day you set foot in here.”

As Matt passed me, he paused for a second. He looked at me, but in his gaze, there wasn’t a trace of yesterday’s tenderness. It was cold, distant, and filled with hatred. A look one gives to a mortal enemy. He hissed each word through his teeth like a knife to my heart.

“You’re still here. Get out of my sight.”

I stumbled back, hitting the doorframe painfully. I watched them. A mother crazed for her daughter. A brother terrified for his sister. Carry Clare hurriedly to the car and disappear into the night.

They left me alone in the immense house. The house suddenly became terrifyingly silent. The silence after the storm is even more chilling than the screams.

I shakily entered Clare’s room. The room was a mess, as if there had been a struggle. The empty gift box lay in the middle of the room, and the dress, that fateful jade green dress, was still there, crumpled on the cold floor. I slowly crouched down, picking it up with trembling hands. It was still the same soft, cool silk, the same translucent green color as a lakes’s water, but now, in my eyes, it was no longer a gift of happiness. It looked like the evidence of a crime, a deadly curse that I had unwittingly activated.

I don’t know how long I sat there. My body was freezing, not from the night air, but from a cold that seeped from the very depths of my soul. My own husband, the person I loved and trusted most, had accused me of being a murderer. My mother-in-law had cursed and expelled me, and all of this had happened in less than an hour.

What have I done? I asked myself hundreds, thousands of times, but I couldn’t find an answer.

That night, I didn’t sleep. I sat in the dark living room, staring out at the empty driveway. I waited. I waited for a call. I waited for Matt to come back and tell me it was all a misunderstanding, but there was nothing. Only the dense darkness and an invisible fear that enveloped me. I knew that from the moment Matt screamed that sentence over the phone, my life had changed forever. My marriage, which I thought was peaceful, concealed a terrible secret. A secret in which, whether I liked it or not, I was now involved.

I had to find out the truth. Not only to clear my name, but also to understand why the husband I loved so much could look at me with the eyes of a mortal enemy.

Around dawn, I drifted off on the cold sofa. My body was curled up from exhaustion, but even that fitful sleep was filled with nightmares. I saw Matt and my mother-in-law standing before me, their eyes blazing, endlessly repeating,

“You’ve killed her.”

I woke with a start, drenched in sweat. Dawn was breaking through the window. But for me, the night seemed to still shroud everything.

Around 8:00 a.m., the sound of a car stopping outside the gate made my heart pound. I ran to the door with a glimmer of hope. Maybe nothing serious had happened to Clare. Maybe Matt had calmed down and would explain everything. But that hope vanished as soon as the car door opened. Only my mother-in-law and Matt got out. Their faces were haggarded, their eyes sunken, and filled with hatred when they saw me.

Helen walked past me like a shadow without a word and went straight into the house. Matt, however, stopped in front of me. The distance was barely an arm’s length, but I felt an abyss separating us. With a trembling, dry voice after a sleepless night, I asked,

“Clare, how is Clare?”

He looked at me, a strangely terrifying gaze. His chapped lips moved, releasing a sentence as cold as ice.

“She’s not dead, but she might as well be.”

With that, he too sidestepped me and went inside.

I felt as if someone were squeezing my heart. His words weren’t just news. They were a condemnation, an affirmation that this entire tragedy was my fault.

From that day on, my life in that house officially became a living hell. They brought Clare home after a day in the hospital, but she became terrifyingly silent. She didn’t speak, didn’t smile, just sat in a corner of her room, her gaze lost out the window. Occasionally, she would startle and tremble as if seeing something horrific.

My mother-in-law took over everything related to Clare. She wouldn’t let me near the girl’s room. If she saw me lingering in the hallway, she would scream,

“How long are you going to keep hurting her? Stay away from her.”

I became an invisible shadow in my own home. No, not invisible, but a repulsive creature everyone wanted to avoid. Helen began to torment me openly. She forced me to do all the household chores from laundry and cooking to cleaning and even digging in the garden. She wouldn’t let me eat with them at the same table. My meals consisted of leftovers, which I ate hastily in a corner of the kitchen.

At night, Matt no longer slept with me. He moved into his home office and locked the door. Our marital bedroom now housed only me, surrounded by four cold walls.

I tried.

I tried many times to talk to Matt. I intercepted him on the stairs. I waited for him in the living room. I sought any opportunity to ask him just one question. What secret did that dress hold? Why had everything become like this?

But all I received was a terrifying silence or words filled with hatred.

“You don’t need to know. The best thing you can do is shut up and do your duty. If anything happens to Clare, I’ll never forgive you.”

My duty? What was my duty now? To be an unpaid servant, a culprit with no right to speak?

My tears had run dry. The physical pain of the exhausting work didn’t break me as much as the spiritual pain of being treated like an enemy by the man I loved.

The entire house was shrouded in a gloomy atmosphere. My mother-in-law and Matt seemed to have reached a tacid agreement, turning the secret about Clare’s illness and the dress into a taboo subject. Every time I tried to mention it, they would either ignore me or use venomous words to shut me up.

My life went on like this, between torment and humiliation. I lost weight. My eyes became sunken from lack of sleep and worry. Sometimes looking at myself in the mirror, I no longer recognized myself. The woman in the mirror had an empty, tired gaze marked by the wrinkles of suffering.

But when a person is pushed to the brink, the instinct for survival emerges. I couldn’t let myself die slowly in this silence. I couldn’t accept being blamed so irrationally. I had done nothing wrong. Their silence, the abnormally excessive protection of Clare, it all indicated that there was a terrible secret behind it. A secret they were trying to bury at all costs. And I was the scapegoat for that secret.

One afternoon, while cleaning the living room, I saw my mother-in-law sneak into Clare’s room with a small black paper bag in her hand. She looked around with a tense expression. When she came out, she no longer had the bag. A gut feeling told me something was wrong. I waited for her to disappear and tiptoed to Clare’s room. The door was always locked, but today, perhaps in her haste, she hadn’t closed it completely. It was just a jar. A tiny crack enough for me to peer inside.

And what I saw through that narrow slit made my blood run cold.

It wasn’t the room of a normal sick person. It looked more like a prison cell, cleverly disguised.

The blood froze in my veins as I peeked through the crack in Clare’s bedroom door. It wasn’t just a feeling of horror, but one of overwhelming confusion. The girl’s room, which I had previously considered just a space with special care, now revealed a completely different face. The window wasn’t a normal glass window. It had a layer of thin iron bars painted white to match the wall color. If you didn’t look closely, they were impossible to detect. On the desk next to the vases of fresh flowers my mother-in-law placed daily were neat piles of textbooks, but they were all old high school books. And what chilled me the most was Clare’s bed? It wasn’t a normal wooden bed, but a hospital-style iron bed with railings on both sides.

Why would a 25-year-old woman need to sleep in a bed like that in her own home? Why did the window have bars? Why did my mother-in-law have to sneak things to her as if she were doing something illicit?

A flood of questions swirled in my mind, transforming my accumulated frustration into a burning determination. I could no longer live in this torment and ambiguity. I had to uncover the truth at any cost.

From that day on, I stopped being the submissive, silent daughter-in-law. I began to watch, to listen, and to memorize every unusual detail in that house. I pretended to be busy working in the yard, but my ears were always alert, trying to catch any movement inside.

I noticed that every day at 5:00 p.m. Sharp, my mother-in-law would personally prepare an herbal tonic. The smell was strong and somewhat pungent, very strange. She never let me touch it, nor did she tell me what it was. She would simply take it to Clare in silence. After drinking the tonic, Clare would sleep soundly until the next morning without having dinner. Once taking advantage of a moment when Helen was distracted, I secretly collected a bit of the herbal dregs left in the teapot, wrapped them in a small piece of paper, and hid them carefully. I didn’t know what it was, but my instinct told me it was a piece of the puzzle.

My husband Matt remained cold and distant. He barely spoke to me, came home late at night, and locked himself in his office. But I noticed that his coldness wasn’t purely hatred. There was a hidden torment and fear within it. Some nights passing by his office, I would hear his deep, anguished sigh. Once I even heard him talk in his sleep,

“It’s not your fault. I’m sorry.”

Those fragmented words were like scattered puzzle pieces that only made the mystery more confusing.

The real opportunity came one weekend evening. Matt said he had to meet an important client and would be back very late. My mother-in-law had a family dinner at a distant relative’s house. Before leaving, she locked Clare’s door as usual and warned me to take good care of the house. And under no circumstances to go upstairs. Her warnings only strengthened my resolve.

When I was alone in the house, my heart pounded. This was the chance I had been waiting for. But how could I get into that locked room? I paced back and forth downstairs, my head about to burst. Suddenly, I remembered a bunch of spare keys that my late father-in-law used to hang behind the door of an old cabinet in the pantry. My father-in-law used to say they were keys to every room in the house for emergencies.

My heart in my throat, I shakily opened the cabinet door. And yes, it was still there. The old key ring hung silently on a rusty nail. I clutched it in my hand, feeling as if I were holding the key to unlock the gates of hell.

I tiptoed up the stairs. Each step was so light it barely made a sound. Standing in front of Clare’s door, I took a deep breath to calm myself. My hands were shaking so much it took me a moment to fit the right key into the lock. A dry click echoed in the silence, and the door swung open.

But just as I was about to step inside, the downstairs phone began to ring shrilly. I jumped, nearly screaming. It was the landline. Who would call at this hour? My heart raced. What if it was my mother-in-law calling to check on me?

I quickly pulled out the key, closed the door, and ran downstairs. I picked up the receiver with a trembling voice.

“Hello.”

On the other end, a gruff, unfamiliar man’s voice resonated. There was something in that voice, both familiar and strange, that chilled my blood. He didn’t ask who I was, just said one sentence, a sentence full of insinuation and threat.

“Don’t try to find out what you shouldn’t know. The punishment of the past is not something anyone can bear.”

With that, he hung up.

I stood there paralyzed, the phone still pressed to my ear. The punishment of the past. What did those words have to do with this family’s secret? Who was that man? Why did he know I was trying to uncover the truth? A whirlwind of questions assaulted me, and I realized that the secret I was trying to unearth was much deeper and more dangerous than I had ever imagined.

The mysterious phone call ended, but the unknown man’s words still echoed in my ears, cold and threatening, the punishment of the past. That phrase was like a warning, an invisible wall blocking my path. But strangely, it didn’t make me back down. On the contrary, it ignited a curiosity more intense than ever. Clearly, someone outside this family also knew the secret and didn’t want meddling. That only proved this wasn’t just a family tragedy.

I stood motionless in the middle of the house for a long time, trying to calm my racing heart. The fear was still there, but the need to find the truth to save myself surpassed everything. I could no longer live like a puppet in this tragic play.

I turned without hesitation and went back upstairs. This time, I no longer felt tremors, but a cold determination. I reinserted the old key into the lock. Clare’s door opened again, and a gust of stale, humid air hit my face. Very different from the gentle lavender scent my mother-in-law usually used in the room.

The room was impeccably tidy, everything meticulously placed, without the slightest trace of a young woman’s life. It looked more like a museum exhibit than a living space. My eyes scanned the room, the hospital-style iron bed, the white bars on the window, the stack of old textbooks. Everything exuded a strange abnormality.

I began to search as delicately and carefully as possible. I opened the closet. Inside were only a few silk pajamas and some loungewear. All in monotonous designs, colorless, not a single dress. Nothing appropriate for a young woman in her prime. I checked the desk drawers. I only found a few pens and blank notebooks. Not a single word written, no diaries, no letters, nothing that reflected Clare’s personal life. It was as if an invisible hand had deliberately erased all traces of her existence, leaving only a perfect facade.

I was about to give up in despair. Maybe they had hidden everything too well. I was about to leave before my mother-in-law returned.

But as my gaze casually fell under the bed, I stopped.

Under the iron bed, in the darkest corner, was something rectangular, covered in a thin layer of dust. My heart sped up. I knelt down and reached for it. My fingers touched a rough, cold wooden surface. It was an old wooden box, not very large, with some simple floral engravings worn down by time. The box had no lock, just a small, tarnished brass latch. Holding my breath, I slowly pulled it into the light. My hands trembled as I opened the lid.

Inside there were no medicines or precious jewels. It was filled with a jumble of objects, things that seemed insignificant. An old tattered rag doll, a butterfly-shaped hair clip with a broken wing, several yellowed photographs of an unknown girl with a radiant smile. And underneath it all, what shocked me the most was a bundle of old newspaper clippings. Carefully cut and arranged, the pages were yellowed with age, but the large, bold headlines were still clearly legible.

I shakily picked up a clipping. The headline hit me like a blow.

Tragic traffic accident on Merit Parkway. Yale student dies at the scene.

I quickly read the lines below. The article described an accident that occurred on a rainy afternoon nearly 10 years ago. A car lost control and hit a young woman riding a bicycle on the shoulder. The victim was a sophomore in the School of Education at Yale University with a promising future. The article didn’t specify the driver’s identity, only stating that the case was still under investigation.

My throat went dry.

I moved on to the other clippings. They all reported on the same accident cut from different newspapers. One even published a blurry photo of the accident scene, a twisted bicycle, a dark stain spreading on the wet asphalt. I shivered. A chill ran down my spine.

Why were clippings about a tragic accident from 10 years ago kept so carefully in Clare’s room? Was the girl in the yellowed photos the unfortunate victim? My mind spun with endless theories. What was the connection between this accident and my husband’s family’s secret? Why was Clare keeping these things? Was this the cause of her strange illness? Was the punishment of the past the mysterious man referred to precisely this accident?

I quickly photographed all the clippings with my phone. I didn’t dare take them, fearing I’d be discovered. I carefully put everything back in its place, erasing any trace of my presence.

Just as I was closing Clare’s door, I heard the familiar sound of my mother-in-law’s car in the driveway. My heart leaped into my throat. She was back earlier than expected. I ran downstairs, went into the kitchen, and pretended to be cleaning. I had nearly been caught red-handed, and I knew that if they found me, the consequences would be unimaginable.

My mother-in-law entered the house. Her sharp gaze scanned me from head to toe. I tried to keep my head down, pretending to be busy cleaning, my heart still pounding from the scare. Luckily, she didn’t notice anything unusual. She just muttered something about being tired of the family dinner, and went straight up to her room to rest.

I breathed a sigh of relief, but the sense of security was only temporary. In my pocket, the phone with the photos of the newspaper clippings burned like a hot coal, giving me hope of finding the truth, but also threatening to burn me at any moment.

That night, I couldn’t sleep a wink. I locked myself in my room, reviewing the photos over and over. The radiant face of the girl in the yellowed pictures, the tragic headlines about the accident, it all replayed in my mind. I was sure this was the key to deciphering all the tragedies happening in this house.

But what should I do? Confront my mother-in-law with this? She would surely deny everything and even accuse me of making it up.

Finally, I decided the only person I could talk to at this moment was Matt. Although he had treated me cruy, although he had sided with his family, I still saw a torment in the depths of his eyes. He wasn’t completely heartless. He was my husband and he owed me an explanation.

I waited 2 days until the opportunity arose. My mother-in-law said she had to go to her parents’ hometown for a few days to sort out some family matters. Only Matt Clare locked silently in her room and I were left in the house.

That night, after a dinner for two in suffocating silence, I saw Matt preparing to lock himself in his office again. I took a deep breath, gathered all my courage, and stood in front of him.

“Matt, I need to talk to you. Just this once. I’m begging you. Don’t run away anymore.”

Matt looked up, a tired and somewhat irritated expression on his face.

“What is it now? I’ve already told you there’s nothing to talk about.”

I didn’t back down. I looked him straight in the eye, my voice trembling, but firm. Yes, there is.

“We need to talk about an accident. A tragic accident on the Merit Parkway almost 10 years ago.”

Hearing this, Matt’s face changed. The irritation vanished. replaced by an undeniable panic. He stared at me, his lips trembling.

“How? How do you know about that?”

“What I know isn’t important. What’s important is that you tell me the truth.”

I held up my phone and showed him the photos of the newspaper clippings.

“Who is this girl? Why are articles about her death kept in Clare’s room?”

Matt looked at the phone screen and froze. He took a step back and slumped into a nearby chair, clutching his head in his hands. His silence lasted for several minutes. A silence so heavy it felt like it could crush an entire horrific past.

Finally, he looked up, his eyes red, his voice.

“Since you know, I won’t hide it from you anymore.”

He began to speak, his voice breaking as if each word were a knife stabbing his own chest. That accident was real. The girl in the photo was named Lucy. She was the victim, and the person who caused the accident was Clare.

My ears were ringing. Although I had suspected it, hearing Matt confirm it was a shock.

He continued,

“It was a rainy afternoon. Clareire, who was only 16 at the time, secretly took our dad’s car to practice driving. She was too inexperienced, and with the rain and slippery road, she lost control and hit Lucy, who was riding her bike in the same direction. Lucy died instantly. After the accident, Clare went into such a state of panic she nearly lost her mind.”

Matt said, his voice filled with pain. She wouldn’t stop screaming and crying, banging her head against the wall, saying she’d killed someone. My parents were desperate, too. On one hand, they loved their daughter, but on the other, they were afraid she’d go to jail.

“You know, Clare has always been delicate. If she had to go to prison, she probably wouldn’t have survived.”

“So, your family covered it all up?” I asked, a lump in my throat.

Matt nodded, avoiding my gaze. My parents had to use a lot of money and connections to fix it. They gave the victim’s family a large sum of money, and somehow the case was closed without finding the culprit. But for Clare, the shock was too great. From that day on, she’s lived tormented by guilt and fear. She has nightmares every night, and her health keeps deteriorating. That’s why she has to live with so much special care. Her illness isn’t an allergy. It’s an illness of the soul.

Hearing the story, I fell silent. A part of me felt pity for Clare, a girl who had to endure such a great tragedy at such a young age, but another part of me felt a growing unease. Matt’s story seemed logical. It explained why Clare’s behavior was so strange.

But if that was all, why did my mother-in-law have to secretly give her that strange herbal tonic everyday? If it was just psychological trauma, why did they have to lock her in a room with bars on the windows? And most importantly, what did all of this have to do with the jade green dress? Why could a simple dress make Clare so gravely ill she almost died and make Matt scream that I had killed my sister?

I looked at Matt. My gaze was no longer fearful like in the early days, but scrutinizing, analytical. I knew the story he had just told wasn’t the whole truth. It was just the tip of a gigantic iceberg. I took a deep breath, trying to keep my voice calm.

“And what about the dress? What about that jade green dress? Why could it put Clare in that state?”

Matt was silent for a long time. He ran a hand through his already messy hair, his face etched with deep anguish. It seemed that having to recall this was torture for him. Finally, he spoke, his voice and distant as if coming from a painful memory. Why?

Because on the day of the accident, the girl Lucy was wearing a dress exactly like it.

A chill went through me. A horrifying coincidence. I could picture the scene. A rainy afternoon, a young woman in a jade green dress pedalling down the road and then a car lunging at her.

It was all horrible, Matt continued, his voice trembling as if he were reliving that terrifying moment himself. After Lucy’s death, her family came to our house to make a scene. They didn’t believe it was a simple accident. They didn’t accept the compensation. Lucy’s mother, in her immense grief over losing her daughter, stood in front of our gate and cursed us. She said that if her daughter died unjustly in that green dress, the daughter of this house would have to live her whole life tormented by it. She cursed Clare, saying that every time she saw or wore a dress of a similar color and style, her daughter’s spirit would return to claim her life, and the tragedy would be repeated. She would have to live in fear, in remorse for the rest of her life.

I held my breath as I listened. A curse. A curse uttered from the mouth of a mother who had lost her child. It sounded irrational, superstitious, but for Clare in that moment, a terrified, guilt-ridden girl, it was no different from a death sentence suspended over her head.

At first, my parents didn’t believe it either, Matt sighed. They thought it was just words said in a moment of anger. But then, strange things started to happen. Once a relative who knew nothing about the story gave Clare a night gown that was also jade green. That night the girl had convulsions and screamed that she saw Lucy covered in blood standing at the foot of her bed staring at her. Ever since then the whole family has been terrified. Anything jade green is forbidden in this house. And Clare, she believes the curse is real. For her that dress is no longer a piece of clothing. It’s the embodiment of guilt, of death.

Hearing this, I began to understand. I understood Clare’s reaction, the panic of my mother-in-law and Matt when they saw me in that dress. In their eyes, I wasn’t wearing a gift, but a deadly curse. I was awakening the demon in Clare’s soul.

But then, another question, an icy question, lodged itself in my mind. I looked directly into Matt’s eyes. My voice no longer trembled. It was strangely sharp.

“Then why did you buy it? You knew perfectly well it was a forbidden object. You knew it would hurt Clare. Why did you deliberately buy it and send it to me as a gift?”

My question was like a knife that hit the bullseye of Matt’s heart. He flinched, his gaze evasive, stammering eye. I I just just what? I pressed, taking a step closer.

“You wanted to test it, didn’t you? You wanted to see if the curse was real. to see if after almost 10 years it still had an effect. And you didn’t hesitate to use your own wife, the woman who sleeps next to you, as a guinea pig for that cruel test, did you?”

Matt hung his head, his shoulders trembled. His silence was the most painful confession.

I started to laugh, a bitter, sarcastic laugh. My tears streamed down, not from self-pity, but from rage. I understood everything. I understood why he had screamed,

“You’ve killed my sister.”

It wasn’t because he feared for Clare’s life, but because he was scared. Scared because his test had been a terrible success. Scared because he himself had pushed his sister into a panic. And scared because his true face had been exposed.

I backed away, looking at the huddled man in front of me, the husband I once loved and trusted. It turned out that behind that kind, gentle facade hid a terrifying selfishness and cruelty. He loved his sister, but that love was so twisted that he was willing to sacrifice his own wife to satisfy a wicked curiosity.

“I’m sorry, Sophia.”

Matt looked up, his voice choked.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen. I just thought it had been a long time, that it was all in the past. I didn’t expect it to be so serious.”

You didn’t expect? I scoffed. You didn’t expect or you deliberately chose not to think about the consequences. In your eyes, I was just a pawn, a tool for you to test some absurd curse, wasn’t I?

I turned away, not wanting to hear another word. The story he told might explain everything, but at the same time, it killed everything left in me for this marriage. The love, the trust, it was all shattered.

But as I entered my room and slammed the door, another sense of unease crept over me. Everything seemed to fit. But why did I still feel that something was wrong? If it was simply a psychological curse, why did Clare’s reaction resemble a real illness with convulsions and foaming at the mouth? And the unknown man who called me, why did he talk about punishment? A word that sounds much heavier and more legal than a simple curse.

Was it possible that the story Matt had just told was still not the whole truth?

The bedroom door closed behind me, but it couldn’t shut out Matt’s words, which continued to drill into my mind, as cruel as they were absurd. I collapsed onto the edge of the bed, trembling from head to toe, as tears streamed down my cheeks. But this time, they weren’t tears of frustration or self-pity, but of a complete breakdown. The man to whom I had once given my heart, whom I had always trusted despite enduring so much bitterness from my mother-in-law, turned out to be capable of using me as a test subject for a wicked experiment. Love, now that I think about it, it seems ridiculous.

In the days following that confrontation, Matt seemed to sink into his own torment. He was no longer brusk or coldly hateful. Instead, there was a heavy silence, a pathetic evasion. He didn’t dare look me in the eye. Whenever we happened to cross paths, he would quickly look away. He started coming home later, and when he did, he would retreat to his office until the early hours of the morning. Perhaps he was running away, running from my gaze and from his own guilt.

My mother-in-law, however, was not like that. After Matt confessed everything, she no longer had a reason to torment me openly, but her hatred for me transformed into something different, more subtle, and persistent. She no longer shouted at me, but every word she spoke was laced with venom. She would say these things deliberately when I was nearby, like invisible needles pricking my still open wound.

“This is what being a daughter-in-law is like. You make a big deal out of a small thing and don’t let the family have any peace. This house is cursed. The daughter is sick. And the daughter-in-law only knows how to cause trouble.”

But I no longer cried. The immense pain had hardened my heart. Instead, in the silence and solitude, my mind became strangely clear and lucid. I began to connect all the dots, to analyze every word, every detail of the story Matt had told. And the more I thought, the more cracks and unexplained contradictions I found.

First, Clare’s reaction. Matt said it was due to the psychological trauma of the curse. I could understand the fear, the screams, even the hallucinations, but the convulsions and foaming at the mouth, those are symptoms of a physical illness, they can’t be purely a product of psychology. They more closely resemble a bodily reaction to a toxin or a triggered epileptic seizure. Could it be that Clare’s illness wasn’t just trauma, but something more tangible?

Second, the strange herbal tonic my mother-in-law prepared for Clare everyday. If it was just a seditive to help her sleep, why did she have to do it so secretively and carefully? Why did she never tell me what it was? I remembered the pungent smell of the brew. It didn’t smell like any calming tea I knew. I took out the herbal drags I had hidden and searched online for medicinal plants, trying to compare the shape and smell, but it was feudal. It was a mixture of too many plants I couldn’t identify.

And finally, the unknown man who called me. His words, “The punishment of the past,” didn’t sound like he was referring to a superstition. It sounded more like he was alluding to a sentence, a legal consequence. If Clare was just a 16-year-old girl who caused an accident out of panic, why use a word as heavy as punishment?

The cracks in Matt’s story grew wider and wider, turning the truth he had just revealed into an even more elaborate and deceptive farce. I realized he might have told a part of the truth, but only a small part used to cover up another much more horrifying truth. This family wasn’t just hiding a tragedy. They were staging a play, and Clare was the unwitting lead actress.

I couldn’t stand by and do nothing. I knew Matt would never tell me the whole truth, and my mother-in-law even less so. I had to find the answers myself.

I started with the newspaper clippings. They listed the victim’s name, Lucy Alvarez, a student at the School of Education. I decided to go to that university. I hoped to find some information about the unfortunate girl’s friends or family. Maybe they could tell me something my husband’s family was trying to hide.

I made an excuse that I was going to visit my family for a few days so I could leave freely. Matt didn’t object, just nodded silently. Maybe he also wanted some space to avoid me. Before I left, I paused at the door and looked back at the house. It was no longer a home. It looked like a giant cage that imprisoned not only Clare, but also guilty secrets. And I, a wife, a daughter-in-law, now felt like an amateur detective embarking on a dangerous investigation. Not knowing what awaited me. I only knew one thing. I wouldn’t stop until the last veil of deceit was lifted.

Leaving that suffocating house, I felt like a prisoner, finally breathing fresh air. But that freedom came with a heavy anxiety. I didn’t go to my parents’ house. I didn’t want to involve my family in this mess. Instead, I rented a small, simple room near downtown New Haven, using it as a base for my investigation.

The next morning, I went to Yale University. 10 years is a long time. Everything had changed. New buildings, young students faces, no trace of the past. I wandered the campus, feeling lost and helpless, not knowing where to start.

I decided to go to the student records office, hoping to find old files. I fabricated a story that I was an old classmate of Lucy’s, that we had lost touch, and now I wanted to find information to visit her family. The young clerk looked at me suspiciously, but perhaps seeing the sincerity in my words, she agreed to help. After rumaging through a dusty archive, she pulled out a yellowed file.

“Here’s the information for student Lucy Alvarez, but she passed away in an accident a long time ago.”

I tried to contain my emotion, my voice trembling. I know.

“Could you give me her family’s address or any contact information for her relatives?”

The clerk shook her head regretfully.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. Due to privacy regulations, we can’t disclose students personal information. Besides, after Lucy’s passing, the family moved and the university lost contact as well.”

I felt devastated. The only lead I had ended in a dead end. I left the records office and wandered aimlessly around the campus. The wind blew gently, carrying the laughter of students, which only accentuated my loneliness. I sat on a stone bench under the shade of a tree, my mind blank. Would all my efforts end here? Would I have to return to that house and accept living in deception and torment for the rest of my life?

Just as I was sinking into despair, a figure quietly sat down next to me. I didn’t pay attention, absorbed in my own thoughts until that person spoke with a deep, gruff voice, the same voice I had heard on the phone.

“You’re looking for Lucy, aren’t you?”

I looked up abruptly. The man sitting next to me was in his late 50s with graying hair and a weathered face marked by the wrinkles of time. But his eyes his eyes were deep and held an infinite sadness. I recognized him even though I had never seen him before. But his melancholic appearance and distinctive voice were unmistakable. He was the man who had called me.

Frightened, I tried to get up and leave, but he took my hand. His hand was thin but firm.

“Don’t be afraid, young lady. I mean you no harm. I’ve been following you since you came to this university.”

Who? Who are you? I stammered. Why are you following me? Why did you call me?

The man didn’t answer immediately. He looked into the distance as if his gaze pierced through space and time, returning to a distant memory. Then he slowly said, each word like a heavy stone dropping into a quiet lake.

“I’m her father. I’m Lucy Alvarez’s father.”

My world stood still. I was frozen, unable to utter a word. The man in front of me, whom I had mistaken for some shady character, was the victim’s father, the man who had suffered the loss of his daughter in the tragedy 10 years ago. My fear dissipated, replaced by a strange compassion and empathy. He turned to look at me, his eyes read.

“I know you’re the daughter-in-law of Matthew’s family. I know you live in that house, and I also know you’re trying to find out the truth.”

sir. How do you know?

He smiled sadly.

“In these 10 years, there hasn’t been a single day that I’ve stopped searching. I don’t believe my daughter died in such a senseless way. I’ve been investigating secretly, gathering information bit by bit. I know that girl, Clare, was the one they said was driving. I also know her family used money to silence everyone, but I don’t have enough solid evidence to reopen the case.”

He sighed, his voice full of helplessness. I was about to give up until you appeared. I saw you marry into that family. I thought maybe fate was giving me a chance. I followed you. I watched you. I saw how they treated you unfairly. I saw the suffering in your eyes. And when you started investigating on your own, I knew you were the only one who could help me. Help my daughter find justice.

My tears welled up. I never expected that. On my lonely journey, an elderly father was also fighting silently. We, two strangers, one seeking the truth for herself, the other seeking justice for his daughter, were united by fate.

The call that day, he continued, I made it on purpose to warn you and also to test you. I wanted to see if you had the courage to keep going, and you haven’t disappointed me.

I wiped my tears and looked him straight in the eye. My voice no longer trembled.

“Sir, I don’t know what I can do, but I promise you, I won’t give up. I’ll do it not just for me, but for Lucy and for you.”

The old man nodded, his lips trembling. He squeezed my hand tightly.

“Thank you, my dear, but you have to be very careful. That family is not as simple as you think. The truth you’re looking for is much more horrifying than a simple traffic accident.”

His last sentence once again planted a vague unease in my heart, more than an accident. What else was hidden behind Lucy’s death? I sat silently next to Mr. Alvarez Anthony, Lucy’s father, trying to process the information I had just received. The campus wind continued to blow, rustling the leaves in the trees, but in my ears, only the echo of his words resonated. The truth is much more horrifying than a simple traffic accident. My heart clenched. A bad feeling seized every cell in my body. I looked into the old father’s sunken, griefstricken eyes and asked in a trembling voice,

“What do you mean by that?”

it. It wasn’t that Clare caused the accidentally. Mr. Alvarez shook his head vehemently. His chapped lips moved as if he were carefully choosing each word to reveal a truth that had been buried for too long.

“No, Sophia, my daughter did not die in a common accident. The story that Matthew told you is only half a lie.”

I held my breath. My entire body tensed like a violin string. Mr. Alvarez took a deep breath, his gaze lost in the distance, his voice as if it came from hell itself. It’s true that Clare was in the car that caused the accident that day, but she wasn’t the one driving.

It felt like an electric shock coursed through me. Not Clare. Then who? My instinct whispered something terrible, something I didn’t dare to think.

The person who was really driving that car. Mister Alvarez said, each syllable laden with a palpable hatred, his eyes bloodshot, was your husband. It was Matthew.

It was as if lightning had struck me. I was stunned, my mind reeling. Matthew, my husband, the kind and gentle man I once loved with all my heart, was the real culprit. No, it can’t be. I stammered, trying to deny the cruel truth. You must be mistaken. Matthew couldn’t. He loves his sister so much. He wouldn’t.

He loves her. Mr. Alvarez scoffed, a twisted, bitter smile on his face. Yes, he loves his sister, but he loves himself a million times more. He sacrificed his own sister to escape his guilt to get where he is today.

He told me the story, his voice trembling with indignation. From what I’ve managed to piece together in my secret investigation, through the few remaining witnesses, the ones Matthews family silenced with money, Matthew was also in the car that day. He was the one driving. Back then, Matthew was barely 20. He was an impulsive, reckless young man.

That day, the two siblings had a huge argument in the car, Mr. Alvarez recounted, clenching his fists so tightly his veins stood out. It seems it was about money. Matthew wanted money from the family for some venture, but his parents refused. Clare, sitting next to him, tried to calm him down. In a fit of rage, out of control, he floored the accelerator and drove like a madman in the rain. And then the tragedy happened.

After causing the accident and seeing my daughter lying motionless in a pool of blood, Matthew panicked. He knew that if the truth came out, his future, his career would be ruined. And in that cruel moment, he made a decision even more wicked than the accident itself. He pinned all the blame on his 16-year-old sister.

I covered my mouth, unable to believe what I was hearing. A lump formed in my throat, and I felt nauseous. The husband I thought was kind, turned out to be a coward, a demon disguised as a man. He had turned his sister into a shield, into a psychiatric patient to hide his own crime. Matthews family, especially your mother-in-law, Mister Alvarez continued, Were complicit with their son. They staged a perfect farce. They told everyone and Clare herself that she was the one driving. The shock and the false sense of guilt combined with the high doses of tranquilizers your mother-in-law fed her daily slowly destroyed the girl’s mind. They turned a healthy girl into a genuine patient, a living doll mired in fear and trauma just to protect their precious son.

Now I understood everything. I understood why the window in Clare’s room had bars, why she had to sleep in a hospital bed. It wasn’t to protect her, but to imprison her, to prevent her from having contact with the outside world, to ensure the secret would never get out. I understood why my mother-in-law had to prepare that tonic in secret. It was a poison. A poison that killed Clare’s mind and memories.

And Matthew’s scream,

“You’ve killed my sister.”

on that fateful night, now had a completely different, a repulsive and false meaning. He wasn’t afraid for Clare’s life. He was afraid. Afraid that the dress, the trigger for her trauma would make Clare remember something. Afraid that the farce his family had built for 10 years would collapse because of a stupid gift he himself had brought.

I lowered my head. Tears fell onto the cold ground. I wasn’t just crying for Lucy. the girl who had died unjustly. I wasn’t just crying for myself, a deceived wife. I was also crying for Clare, a victim, a soul imprisoned and destroyed by her own loved ones.

I looked up at Mr. Alvarez. My voice no longer trembled, but was filled with a steely anger and determination.

“Sir, we have to save Clare. We have to bring this truth to light.”

Mr. Alvarez’s words were like a flood that washed away everything I had known, everything I had believed about my husband’s family. The truth wasn’t just horrifying. It was so repulsive and inhuman that no words could fully describe it. I sat paralyzed on the stone bench. The campus wind continued to blow, but I no longer felt anything. In my head was only the image of Matthew, my kind husband, with another face, the face of a cold-blooded killer and the image of Clare, not as a sick sister-in-law, but as a victim imprisoned in her own family’s tragedy.

Mr. Alvarez looked at me with compassionate eyes.

“I know this is a huge shock for you, but you have to be strong, Sophia. You’re the only person in that house who can get close to Clare, who can save her.”

I took a deep breath, trying to suppress the nausea rising in my throat.

“But, but how can I save her?” I asked helplessly. “Clare doesn’t even know she’s being harmed. For 10 years, she’s lived believing she was the killer. They’ve poisoned her mind. How can I make her believe the truth?”

That’s the key. He said the crulest part of Matthew’s family’s plan. They not only blamed Clare, but they turned her into a real psychiatric patient by constantly instilling in her the idea that she was guilty, that she was traumatized. Along with the effects of the high potency tranquilizers disguised as herbal tonics, they managed to break her will and erase her memories. Clare can no longer distinguish between real and fake. She is completely dependent on the care and guidance of her mother and brother. the very people she believes love and protect her.

The strange allergy to fabrics, I murmured, a painful truth suddenly illuminating my mind. It was also just a lie. Mister Alvarez nodded. Exactly. It was the perfect excuse for them to completely control Clare’s life. They created a trigger for her illness common fabrics to justify her confinement. That way, they could prevent Clare from communicating with the outside world, prevent anyone from awakening her memories. The girl could only wear expensive silk clothes prepared by her own mother, eat what her mother cooked, and drink the medicine her mother prepared.

Everything began to fall into place like a completed puzzle. The pieces that had once seemed illogical now fit perfectly, creating a chilling conspiracy.

and the dress, the jade green dress. Now I understood its true purpose. Matthew didn’t give it to me to foolishly test a curse as he had fabricated. It was a cruel and calculated psychological test. After nearly 10 years, perhaps Matthew and my mother-in-law wanted to check how deeply ingrained Clare’s illness was. They wanted to see Clare’s reaction to seeing another person, her sister-in-law, wearing the object of her trauma. They wanted to know if Clare would still react violently as before, or if time had faded that fear. If Clare didn’t react, maybe they would slowly relax their control. But if Clare became ill, it would prove that their farce was still working and they would have to continue to imprison her in that invisible cage.

And Matthew’s scream,

“You’ve killed my sister.”

That scream wasn’t out of panic for Clare’s life. It was a scream of fear. Fear that the puppet he had so carefully constructed for 10 years would react unexpectedly. He feared that Clare’s convulsions were not from the trauma, but a sign that real memories were resurfacing, fighting to get out. He feared that his play was about to end.

I shivered. The truth was even cruer than I could have imagined. Matthew wasn’t just a coward. He was a director, a cold-blooded psychological manipulator. He had turned his own sister into a lab rat in his family’s sick experiment.

I looked at Mr. Alvarez. My voice trembled with indignation.

“The medicine my mother-in-law gives Clare. What is it, sir?”

Mr. Alvarez sighed. I’m not entirely sure, but from what I’ve been able to find out, it could be a type of antis-cychotic or worse, a drug that causes memory loss with long-term use. It keeps her in a drowsy, confused state, unable to think clearly. It’s the main tool they use to control her.

The herbal drags I had hidden. I suddenly remembered that was the only physical evidence I had. Sir, I said, a plan beginning to form in my mind. I have to go back to that house. I can’t abandon Clare. I have to find a way to get a sample of that medicine and have it analyzed. And and I have to find a way to talk to Clare.

Mister Alvarez looked at me with concern. It’s very dangerous, Sophia. Now that they know you’re suspicious, they won’t let you act so easily.

I know. I nodded. An unprecedented determination in my eyes. But if I don’t do it, no one can save Clare. She’s suffered too much. It’s time she knew the truth.

As painful as it would be, I knew my biggest challenge now was not confronting Matthew or my mother-in-law, but how to approach and awaken a soul that had been imprisoned in darkness for 10 years. A soul that didn’t even know it was a prisoner.

Returning to that house after talking with Mr. Alvarez felt like walking into the lion’s den. Everything was the same, the same false veneer of peace. But now, in my eyes, every corner, every object was stained with guilt.

Matthews gaze toward me was no longer just evasive, but also wary. My mother-in-law watched me even more closely, barely letting me out of her sight, as if she feared I would do something terrible. But the more alert they were, the more cunning I had to be. I knew I couldn’t be rash.

The first thing I had to do was get a sample of the medicine. I waited patiently. For several days, I pretended to have accepted my fate, reverting to the quiet, hard-working daughter-in-law. I stopped confronting them, stopped showing my frustration. My change in attitude seemed to slightly relax their vigilance.

The opportunity came one afternoon. My mother-in-law had to go to the town hall for some business. She tasked me with looking after Clare, but she didn’t forget to lock her bedroom door as usual.

The moment I heard the sound of her car pulling away, I acted. I ran to the kitchen where she used to prepare the tonic. Luckily, there was still a little of yesterday’s concentrate left in the teapot. carefully using a small syringe I had prepared. I drew some up, put it in a clean glass vial, and hit it well.

With the sample in my possession, my heart beat faster. But I knew this was only the first step. The biggest challenge lay ahead.

How to talk to Clare?

Her door was always locked. I couldn’t use the old key ring again. They would have surely taken precautions. I paced the hallway, my nerves on edge. Suddenly, I remembered a detail. Clare’s room and Matthew’s office shared a small balcony separated only by a low wall. If I could get into Matthew’s office,

I tiptoed down and tried the office door knob, locked. I was about to despair, but then my gaze landed on the small ventilation grate above the door. It had no bars. I looked around and saw a stool in a corner.

A bold idea occurred to me. I knew it was incredibly risky, but I had no other choice.

I placed the stool and shakily climbed up. Being petite, I was luckily able to squeeze through the grate. I landed inside Matthew’s office, my heart pounding. I ran to the balcony. Just as I thought, I just had to climb over the low wall to get to the balcony of Clare’s room. Clare’s balcony door wasn’t locked. I gently opened it and stepped inside.

Clare was sitting on the bed with her back to me, her long hair falling over her thin shoulders. She was humming a familiar tune, a melody that was clear yet unsettling. I took a deep breath and called her softly.

“Clare.”

Clare jumped and spun around. Seeing me, her eyes widened in obvious panic. She shrank back, retreating to a corner of the bed, clutching her head.

“You: How did you get in here? Mom said no one could come in.”

I approached slowly, holding out my hands to show her I meant no harm.

“Clare, don’t be afraid. I just want to talk to you.”

“No, go away,”

Clare cried in a pitous voice.

“It’s your fault. It’s all your fault. You brought that dress. You called her. She’s here. I see her.”

The girl began to tremble violently, her gaze fixed on an empty spot behind me. I knew her hallucination was back. My heart achd. I sat beside her, trying to keep my voice as gentle as possible.

“Clare, there’s no one here. It’s just you and me. Look carefully.”

“She’s there. She’s smiling.”

Clare grew more terrified. I knew if this continued, I couldn’t tell her anything. I had to do something to pull her out of her hallucination.

Suddenly, I remembered the old rag doll I had seen in the secret box.

“Clare,” I said quickly. “Do you remember your rag doll? The one you used to sleep with?”

Hearing about the doll, Clare paused. Her trembling seemed to lessen slightly. Her gaze was no longer lost in space, but fixed on me with a touch of bewilderment.

“My doll? How do you know?”

“I know. And I also know about the butterfly hair clip, the one with the broken wing. You hid them in a wooden box under your bed, right?”

Clare was completely stunned. She stared at me, the fear in her eyes gradually replaced by curiosity.

“How? How do you know these things?”

I knew this was my moment. I took her cold hand.

“Clare, trust me. Everything you’re seeing, everything you’re feeling, it’s not real. You are not guilty. You didn’t kill anyone.”

“No,”

Clare shouted again, pulling her hand away.

“It was me. I drove the car. I killed her. Mom and Matt told me.”

“They lied to you.”

I said loudly, firmly.

“They have been deceiving you for 10 years. The person driving that day was not you. Don’t you remember, Clare? Try to remember who else was in the car that day.”

I tried to awaken Clare’s memories, but they seemed to be buried too deeply. She just clutched her head and shook it vehemently, tears streaming down her face.

“I don’t remember. I don’t remember anything. My head hurts. Go away. Please, just go away.”

Seeing Clare’s pain and anguish, I knew I couldn’t push her any further. Her mind was too fragile. I backed away. My voice choked.

“Okay, I’ll go. But Clare, remember what I told you. You are not guilty. Trust yourself. Don’t believe what they tell you.”

I turned and climbed back over the balcony. Just as I was getting back into Matthew’s office, I heard the sound of my mother-in-law’s car pulling up to the gate. My heart almost leaped out of my chest. I quickly scrambled through the ventilation grate, put the stool back, and ran to my room, trying to catch my breath.

I had failed in my attempt to awaken Clare, but I knew my words were like tiny seeds planted in the barren soil of her soul. They might not sprout immediately, but with a chance, with a strong enough push, they would break through. and I didn’t know that chance would come in a way no one could have foreseen.

The days following my secret meeting with Clare passed in a tense calm. I didn’t dare do anything else for fear of alerting them. My mother-in-law didn’t seem to discover I had snuck into the room, but she watched Clare even more closely. She barely left the house and was always by her side. Clare remained the same, silent and distant. But sometimes I would catch her looking at me, a confused, fearful, and curious gaze, as if she were trying to find an answer. I knew my words had had an effect, but they needed a final push.

Meanwhile, I secretly sent the medicine sample to Mr. Alvarez. He promised to have it analyzed at a trusted lab and get me the results as soon as possible. I could only wait. Each day felt like an eternity.

And then that push came. Not from me, but from Matthew himself.

That night, Matthew came home completely drunk. He didn’t lock himself in his office as usual, but collapsed in the living room, drinking straight from a bottle of brandy. My mother-in-law, seeing him, went to scold him. What’s wrong with you, son? What happened to make you drink like this?

Matthew didn’t answer, just took another large swig. Suddenly, he burst into tears. choked, gut-wrenching sobs from a man who had been suppressing himself for too long.

“Mom, I’m so tired. I don’t want to live like this anymore. I’ve failed her.”

“And I’ve failed Clare.”

Helen, frightened, tried to cover his mouth.

“Are you crazy? What nonsense are you talking about? Someone might hear you.”

I was hidden behind the staircase. My heart pounded. I heard every word. In his drunken state, Matthew’s respectable facade had completely crumbled, revealing a soul eaten away by guilt.

The argument grew louder. Matthew, drunk, yelled,

“I don’t want to keep deceiving her. I don’t want to see Clare live like a ghost. It’s all my fault. It’s all my fault.”

Those shouts reached Clare’s room, her door was thrown open. Clare stood there, her face pale, her eyes wide with horror. She had heard everything. The memory of our conversation, combined with her brother’s drunken confession, seemed to be too great a shock. Clare clutched her head, let out a heart-wrenching scream, and collapsed unconscious on the floor.

The house was plunged into chaos again. Matthew sobered up instantly, and together with my mother-in-law, they rushed Clare to the hospital.

This time, I didn’t stand by and watch. I knew this was the only chance. I ran after them to the car, insisting on going. I have to go. What happened to her has to do with me, too.

Perhaps in the confusion, Matthew and my mother-in-law didn’t stop me.

On the way to the hospital, I received a text from Mr. Alvarez. He had the lab results. Just as we suspected, the medicine Clare took daily contained a powerful antiscychotic. Long-term use could cause memory loss, hallucinations, and complete dependency. It was what had turned Clare into their puppet.

At the hospital after emergency care, Clare regained consciousness, but she was no longer the same. She didn’t speak, didn’t cry, just lay there with her gaze lost on the ceiling, empty and soulless. The doctor said she had suffered a very severe psychological shock and needed specialized treatment.

I knew I had to act immediately. I called Mr. Alvarez and told him everything. He said at once,

“Sophia, this is our golden opportunity. I’ll contact a friend who works at the best psychiatric clinic in the state. We have to get Clare there away from her mother and brother’s control. Only then will she have a chance to heal.”

We devised a bold plan. We would take advantage of a moment when Matthew and Helen were distracted to sneak Clare out of the hospital. I knew it was incredibly risky, almost a kidnapping, but we had no other choice.

That night, I stayed at the hospital with Clare. Matthew and my mother-in-law had gone home to get more things. I sat by her bed, took her cold hand, and whispered,

“Claare, it’s me. Can you hear me? Trust me, I’m going to get you out of here. I’ll help you get your life back.”

Clare didn’t react. But I saw a single clear tear roll slowly down her cheek. My heart achd. I knew that deep inside that soulless shell, Clare was still listening. She still longed to be free.

The next morning, very early, when the hospital corridors were almost empty, Mr. Alvarez was waiting with a car at the back entrance. I led Clare, who was still in a state of confusion, out the emergency exit. Every step was heavy. My heart pounded. I kept looking back, fearing Matthew and my mother-in-law would appear at any moment.

Just as we reached the back door, a familiar figure blocked our path. It was Matthew.

My heart nearly leaped out of my chest. He had found us. It was over.

Matthew looked at me, then at Clare, leaning on my shoulder. His face was pale, full of torment. I held Clare tightly, bracing for a struggle.

But no, Matthew didn’t lunge at us. He stood there, looking at us for a long moment, and then said in a horse voice,

“Take her. Take good care of her.”

I was stunned. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. He was letting us go. Matthew came closer and pressed a thick wallet into my hand.

“Here’s some money. consider it a part of my redemption. Take Clare to the best place. Save her. I’m begging you.”

With that, he turned and walked away quickly, as if fleeing. His lonely, hunched back under the faint light of dawn.

I stood there, my eyes filled with tears. I didn’t know whether to be happy or sad. Matthew had finally made a choice, a late one, but perhaps the only right thing he could do at that moment.

I helped Clare into the car. The car started, taking us far away from the city, far from the painful past toward an uncertain future. I knew this escape was just the beginning. The road to healing for Clare and for me would be long and difficult.

The carried Clare and me far away, leaving behind the city filled with painful memories. I looked at Clare, still sitting silently, her gaze lost out the window, but her hand was clutching mine a weak grip, but full of trust. Matthew’s final act, as unexpected as it was bitter, had stirred a whirlwind of emotions in my heart. He had finally chosen the side of conscience. But could the wound he and his family had inflicted be healed with just a little money and a belated plea?

We arrived at the psychiatric clinic recommended by Mr. Alvarez. It was a quiet, secluded place, nestled among green hills. The air was pure and serene, a stark contrast to the suffocating, oppressive atmosphere of Matthew’s home. The doctors immediately admitted Clare. After reviewing the lab results of the medication and hearing my full account, the head of psychiatry told me, his voice full of compassion, but also gravity,

“Miss Clare’s case is very complex. She has been psychologically and physically poisoned for a very long time. The treatment process will be difficult and will require a great deal of time. The most important thing now is to completely isolate her from the people who caused her trauma.”

I stayed at the clinic with Clare. The first few days were the hardest. Clare barely spoke, huddling in a corner. The doctors had to resort to intensive psychological therapies to slowly break through the shell she had built around herself. I was always by her side, telling her happy stories, reading her books, and waiting patiently.

Meanwhile, Mr. Alvarez did not rest. He officially filed a report against Matthew’s family with the police, submitting all the evidence we had gathered, the lab results, the old newspaper clippings, and my own testimony.

A month later, as Clare began to show the first signs of improvement, when she started speaking again, even if only in short sentences, I received a call from Mr. Alvarez. He told me the police had opened an investigation and wanted to bring everyone involved in for a formal interview, including Clare.

Clare’s doctors after consultation agreed. They thought it could be a necessary shock therapy to help Clare confront her past and truly overcome it.

On the day of the interview in a sterile room at the police station, the tension was suffocating. I sat on one side tightly holding Clare’s hand. She was trembling, but her eyes no longer held a void. They held fear mixed with a glimmer of determination. Across the table sat Matthew and his mother, Helen. Matthew was gaunt, his eyes sunken, his face etched with exhaustion and guilt. Helen no longer had her fierce, cunning demeanor. She sat silently, her hair much grayer, her shoulders slumped like someone utterly defeated.

When the detective began to ask questions, Helen broke down. She didn’t deny anything. She made no excuses. She admitted everything. She admitted to conspiring with her son to fabricate Clare’s illness and hide Matthew’s guilt. She admitted to giving Clare high doses of antiscychotics for 10 years. Sobbing, she said in a broken voice.

“I I just wanted to protect my son. Matthew was the family’s only hope. I couldn’t let him go to jail. I know I was wrong. I destroyed my daughter’s life. I’m so sorry.”

Matthew, beside her, kept his head bowed, not daring to look at anyone. He too confessed to all of his actions. He admitted he was the one driving, that he blamed his sister, and that he used me for his cruel experiment. His voice trembled with remorse.

“I was a coward. I destroyed everyone’s life. I will accept whatever punishment the law gives me.”

The interview was no longer a dispute. It became a tear soaked confession.

But the person I was most worried about at that moment was Clare. She sat there listening to every word. Her face was pale, her lips trembled. The suppressed memories, the scattered pieces of the past seemed to be returning, fitting together into a complete and painful picture.

Finally, the detective turned to Clare, his voice gentle.

“Miss Clare, do you have anything to say?”

Clare slowly lifted her head. For the first time in a long time, she looked directly at her mother and brother. Her eyes no longer showed fear or hatred. It was a look filled with pain and disappointment. Then she spoke. Her voice was weak but clear, each word like a knife cutting the silence.

“Why?”

Just one question.

Why?

Helen cried out, trying to move toward her daughter.

“Clare, I’m sorry. Mom was wrong.”

Matthew also looked up, his face stre with tears.

“I’m so sorry, Clare. I’m a terrible brother.”

But Clare just shook her head. She stood up and gripped my hand tightly. She said nothing more. simply turned and walked out of the room with me. The door closed behind us, leaving behind two people submerged in late remorse and indelible guilt.

As we walked out, Clare rested her head on my shoulder. Her body was shaking. I knew this was just the beginning of her healing journey. Facing the truth was incredibly painful, but it was a necessary step for her to truly be reborn, and I I would always be by her side to get through this storm with her. I hadn’t saved my marriage, but at least I had saved a soul.

After that fateful interview, everything unfolded as expected. The curtain on the 10-year long farce fell completely, leaving nothing to hide. Matthew, charged with vehicular manslaughter and obstruction of justice, had to face the full force of the law. I did not attend the trial. I didn’t want to witness that scene. Didn’t want to reopen wounds that were already too deep. I remained quietly at the clinic, holding Clare’s hand, watching together through the window as the golden sun stretched over the green treetops.

My marriage to Matthew also came to an end. We divorced quietly, without please, without resentment. Between us, there was only a painful truth and a void that could never be filled. He had to pay for his sins, and I I too had paid a heavy price for my innocence and blind trust.

Helen, after losing her son and daughter in different ways, completely broke down. She sold the estate in Connecticut, that place filled with guilty secrets, and moved alone back to her small hometown. Sometimes Mr. Alvarez would tell me she was seen coming and going in silence, speaking to no one. Her former pride and power were gone, leaving only a lonely old woman consumed by late remorse in the final years of her life. Perhaps that was the sentence of her own conscience, a sentence heavier than any prison bars.

As for Clare, her journey of healing was a long and thorny path. Facing the truth that she was not a murderer, but a victim of her dearest loved ones was an immense shock. There were times she fell into depression, times she would rage and break things. But the doctors and I never gave up. I was always by her side, listening, sharing, and using sincere love to warm her frozen heart. Slowly, Clare began to open up. She started to read, to learn to paint, and to find joy in small things. Her smile, though still strained, began to reappear on her pale lips.

One day, she showed me a painting she had just finished. It was a picture of two women holding hands walking toward the sun. One was her, and the other was me. Underneath the painting, in trembling handwriting, she had written,

“Thank you for bringing me out of the darkness.”

Seeing the painting, I couldn’t hold back my tears. All the effort, all the pain seemed to vanish in that instant.

As for me, after the divorce, I didn’t return to the bustling city life. I decided to stay in this quiet area where I found Clare and where I found myself. With the help of Mr. Alvarez and the money Matthew had given me, I opened a small floral boutique. The work didn’t bring in much money, but it gave me peace. Every day, tending to the flowers, watching them bloom, I felt as if my own soul was healing, too.

Mr. Alvarez, after getting justice for his daughter, also found peace. He no longer lived tormented by remorse and hatred. He treated Clare and me like his own family. On weekends, he would often stop by the flower shop, bringing us vegetables from his garden.

Three people, three different destinies. We had weathered the biggest storm of our lives together. And now we leaned on each other to move forward.

Sometimes in the quiet evenings, I still remember that jade green dress, the fateful gift that pushed me into a bottomless tragedy. But it was also what helped me uncover a horrifying truth, save a soul, and find my own path. I realized that in life, sometimes the worst things happen to make way for better things. I lost a family, a marriage, but in return, I gained the truth, the freedom of my soul, and a sister whom I will love and protect for the rest of my life.

Standing in front of my flower shop, looking at the sunflowers that always stand tall facing the sun, I smiled. The storm always passes, and after the rain, the sky is blue again. My life and Claire’s from now on will only look toward the