Ticking Secrets At Maydale

Chapter 1

Fifteen years ago

"Mom," Alani gasped, her voice cracking as she melted into her mother's embrace. The warmth of her mother's arms shielding her from the echoes of fear and loneliness that had haunted her for so long. Their eyes shimmered with tears, reflecting a blend of disbelief, relief, and pure joy.

"Alani," her mother whispered, her voice trembling with emotion, "we are safe, finally." Her words carried the weight of countless sleepless nights, desperate prayers, and endless waiting.

"Really, Mom?" Alani sobbed, her voice small and fragile, as though afraid that the truth would slip away if spoken too loudly. Tears streamed down her cheeks, releasing for all the pain she had bottled up. "You never have to leave me again then?" she asked, her wide eyes searching her mother's for reassurance.

Her mother pulled her closer, her hand gently stroking Alani's tangled hair, as if to soothe all the hurt away. "Never, never, never," she murmured against her daughter's ear, her voice thick with emotion. "We'll stay by each other's side for the rest of our lives."

Their arms tightened around each other, their bodies trembling with sobs that came from a place deeper than words could reach. It was a moment they had both dreamed of in the darkest of times—an unspoken promise fulfilled. They stood there, their hearts beating together, unwilling to let go as they celebrated the victory that had felt impossible for so long. The air was filled with the scent of rain-soaked earth, mingled with their shared breaths, and for the first time in what seemed like forever, they knew they had finally come home.

. . .

The buzzing of the alarm jolted me from my slumber. I groggily rubbed my eyes and checked the time. It was 4 a.m. A smile tugged at my lips—right on schedule. I got up, splashed cold water on my face, and brushed my teeth. As I drew open the curtains, I was greeted by darkness, though the sky was already streaked with hints of blue, promising the dawn to come.

I settled into the chair on my balcony, inhaling the crisp morning air. The earth still smelled fresh from the rain last night—petrichor, one of my favorite scents. The leaves shimmered under the dew, their surfaces glistening in the faint light, and from somewhere nearby, the song of a nightingale echoed through the early morning quiet.

With a warm cup of tea in my hands, I sipped slowly, watching as the horizon began to brighten. The sunrise never ceased to mesmerize me—how subtly the soft, gentle light would transform into bright, blinding rays, all in a matter of minutes. As the sun climbed higher, my thoughts began to drift, wandering freely in the peace of the hour.

Life as a journalist could be chaotic, always rushing from one place to the next, chasing leads and meeting deadlines. But mornings like these—sitting quietly at home, feeling the world come alive at its own pace—these were the moments I truly cherished. It was a rare luxury compared to the usual mornings spent in motels, hastily preparing for early journeys or rushing off to interviews.

Don't get me wrong, I loved my job. The thrill of the hunt was what kept my blood pumping. There was something exhilarating about digging into details, piecing together clues, and forming a bigger picture. Each little discovery, every bit of progress, brought a sense of delight. And after all that, when the story came together, weaving my words to share it with the world—that was its own kind of magic.

But sitting in the moment like this, just being, was important too.

Eventually, I got up, heading back inside to get dressed. The early chill lingered, so I pulled on a grey sweater and topped it with a green jacket. After brushing my fluffy brown hair, I adjusted my glasses, grabbed my keys, and set off for work. As I stepped out, I couldn't help but wonder what kind of case I'd be assigned next. My previous article had been a tremendous hit, and I was still riding that high.