Epiphany

15

Clara sat at the small, worn wooden table in the café, her hands wrapped around the warmth of her coffee mug. The morning sunlight filtered through the window, painting her with soft rays that seemed to add a glow to her otherwise quiet expression. Beckett slid into the seat across from her, his eyes searching hers for a trace of the warmth she had shown in their last conversation.

"You seem quieter than usual today," he said, his voice low and gentle.

Clara shrugged, the motion slight. "Just thinking, I guess. This place helps."

"I get that," Beckett replied, leaning back in his chair. He took a sip of his own coffee before adding, "You know, the café might be my safe haven, but horror movies are my absolute downfall."

Clara glanced up at him, an eyebrow arched. "Horror movies? Really?"

"Oh, absolutely. I talk a big game, but one jump scare, and I'm done for," he said with a grin. "Let's just say I triple-check the locks on my doors after watching one."

A small, genuine laugh escaped Clara, surprising even her. It felt good, momentarily lifting the cloud that had lingered over her since the hospital. "I'm the same. I once watched The Ring at a friend's house, and I couldn't sleep for days. I kept seeing her crawling out of the TV in my dreams."

Beckett's eyes widened, feigning horror. "The Ring? That's advanced-level terror. You're braver than I thought."

Clara shook her head, a real smile breaking through. "Not brave. Just easily swayed by peer pressure."

They shared a moment of laughter, and Beckett's gaze softened as he looked at her. The noise of the café faded, leaving just the two of them, their conversation a small, quiet reprieve from the world.

"So, how about this?" Beckett said, his tone turning more serious. "If you're up for it, we could try watching a horror movie together. We'll call it... mutual moral support."

Clara's heart gave an unexpected twist, a strange combination of nervousness and something lighter, almost hopeful. She took a sip of her coffee, more for something to do than because she wanted it. "Moral support," she repeated softly. "That's one way to put it."

"Speaking of moral support," Beckett continued, eyes still on her, "can I ask for your number? You know, in case I need backup when the scary movie ghosts come after me."

Clara felt her cheeks flush, and she looked down at her coffee, the warmth creeping from her hands to her heart. It had been so long since she felt comfortable enough to share anything personal, let alone with someone who didn't know her dark past. But here, in the small café with the chatter of strangers around them, it felt like a tiny step toward something new.

"Sure," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper but steady.

Beckett handed her his phone, and she punched in her number, handing it back with a shy smile. As he saved her contact, the sun outside the window shifted, casting light that seemed to chase away the shadows she'd been holding onto.

Clara stood quietly in the cemetery, the crisp autumn air carrying with it the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves. The gravestones around her stood as silent sentinels, each marking a life that had once been vibrant. Her gaze rested on one headstone, and the name carved into the cool marble sent a shiver through her: Rose Sinclair.

The memories surged forward, unbidden and relentless. Clara remembered the day she discovered that Rose was gone. It was late in the evening, the sky a bruised purple as twilight set in. She was holed up in a dimly lit room of a motel, one of the countless stops during her self-imposed exile from the BAU. The flickering neon sign outside her window cast flashes of red light, illuminating the faded wallpaper and casting ghostly shadows around the room.

The day had been exhausting; Clara had spent it following a thin lead about a figure from her past, a trail that led nowhere. She sat on the edge of the creaky bed, scrolling through news on her phone out of habit. The headline appeared suddenly, glaring in stark black and white: "Young Woman Found Dead in Abandoned Warehouse: Authorities Link Incident to Shadow Network."

Her heart skipped, and her breath caught painfully in her chest as she clicked on the article, hands trembling. The face that appeared below the headline was unmistakable—Rose Sinclair. The photo was old, taken before life had hardened them both. Rose was smiling, her eyes bright with the fierce spirit Clara had admired. A surge of disbelief coursed through her as she read the sparse details of the report. The authorities claimed that Rose's death was the result of foul play, linked to the same underground network that had stolen their childhoods.

Clara's vision blurred, the words on the screen swimming until they became unreadable. A wave of nausea swept over her, and she dropped her phone onto the bed as though it had burned her. Memories of Rose flooded her mind—the way they'd whispered in the dark during stolen moments of freedom, trading dreams of escape and the hope of a life beyond the academy's cold, suffocating grip.

Rose had been her ally, the one person who truly understood the depth of the trauma they shared. They had promised to watch each other's backs, to find a way out together. But that promise had been shattered when Clara made her escape alone, unable to go back for Rose, haunted by the guilt that gnawed at her daily.

In the days that followed, Clara scoured every source she could find for more information, piecing together the truth. Rose had been searching for freedom, too, but she hadn't been as lucky. Clara's fists clenched at the thought of what Rose had endured, the silence of her fight, and the finality of her end. Anger coiled in her gut—anger at the world that had failed them, at the people who had taken so much and left scars that never healed.

Back in the cemetery, the flash of memory subsided, leaving Clara with an aching hollow in her chest. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, the scent of damp earth grounding her in the present. "I'm sorry I didn't find you sooner," she whispered, a promise wrapped in grief and resolve. "I'll make sure you're not forgotten, Rose. Not ever."