Divided Shadows_2

Part 13

Present day

Lotta’s mind had begun to drift like waves, pulled in and out of turbulent waters, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't escape Iris. At first, she was convinced that Iris was nothing more than another test, another mind game from the institution, and by not falling for it, she told herself, she had passed. But, sometimes, in the dead of night, a different voice would creep in, gnawing at her resolve: What if she failed Iris like she failed Angela?

It was fine, she thought, until the nightmares began. Iris appeared, her skin pale, the vivid red lipstick smudged, and bruises darkened her neck. Each night, Iris was there—sometimes in her dreams, sometimes in flashes while she was awake—whispering accusations, her voice hoarse and broken. “You failed me, Lotta,” Iris would rasp, her eyes hollow yet piercing. “why didn't you believe me… now I’m here because of you.”

Lotta kept it all to herself. Who would believe her anyway? Everyone around her always wanted proof, evidence that she could never provide. But her mind twisted around one thought: if she was going to make a sound about this first she had to go find proof of Iris’s existence, and something concrete to explain Iris claims, she could silence both her doubts and the accusing whispers.

She began to watch the staff closely. After sessions, Lotta noticed how the psychiatrist would hand off files to the assistants, who would eventually carry them to a shelf by the nurses office before the day’s end. She tracked their routine obsessively, noting each movement until she was certain of the timing. By evening, the files would be collected and taken to Dr. Whittaker’s office, locked securely for the night. Her heart raced at the thought. That’s where the answers are—hidden behind those locked doors.

The next phase required bolder actions. She needed a key, and after enough observation, she realized the head nurse held a spare. Every night, the nurse would open Dr. Whittaker’s office to let the cleaners in, and by 10:30, the office would be locked up tight again. Lotta formulated a plan: she would hide in the bathroom, wait for the office to open around 9:30, the cleaners normally takes 30 minutes so she gave herself thirty minutes to search undisturbed.

On the night of her plan, Lotta slipped into the shadows of the bathroom, her heart pounding in her chest as she listened for the clock’s steady ticks. When she heard the jangle of keys at precisely 9:30 p.m., she steadied her breath, waiting as the cleaner entered, the door swinging open. Time dragged as she counted the seconds, every instinct in her screaming to turn back, but she forced herself to wait until the nurse finally departed, leaving the door unlocked.

Once she was certain the hallway was clear, Lotta slipped from her hiding place and crossed the hall into Dr. Whittaker’s office. The light filtered through the blinds, casting lines across the dark, sterile room. Every surface seemed to radiate coldness as she began searching, her hands moving quickly over shelves, drawers, anywhere a file might be tucked away.

With each passing minute, her frustration grew. The drawers were empty of files, the cupboards filled with nothing more than dusty textbooks and forgotten supplies. Her heart sank as her eyes scanned the room, desperate, as if hoping a file would appear out of thin air. She even checked behind framed certificates and moved the heavy desk chair to reach the cabinets above, but found nothing. Her hope ebbed, replaced by a rising sense of dread. Had they hidden it somewhere else? Did they know someone would come looking?

The room felt as if it were closing in on her, every shadow pressing down like the weight of failure. The walls seemed to whisper her doubts, amplifying her guilt. And then, a sound in the hallway made her freeze. Footsteps. Slow, deliberate, coming closer. Panic rose like bile in her throat; she’d been so focused she had lost track of time. Without another moment to think, she dashed out of the room, her steps feather-light as she slipped back into the bathroom just as the footsteps reached the door.

The lock clicked into place, sealing away whatever answers she thought she might find. Lotta waited until the footsteps receded down the hall before she allowed herself to breathe. Her shoulders sagged, weighed down by frustration and disappointment. Her one chance had slipped away, and now she was left with nothing but the accusing echoes of Iris’s ghost, who would surely haunt her still.

As she returned to her room, silent and unnoticed, she felt a hollow ache burrow deeper into her. Her desperation for the truth had led her nowhere. She had failed, again. And this failure felt heavier than any before, as if the institution itself had swallowed her hope whole, leaving her to confront the reality that maybe—just maybe—she was, in fact, alone in this shadowed world.