Where Have You Gone

Chapter 4️⃣0️⃣

The evening settled like a blanket over the house. Richie and Irin decided to stay at the hospital as Anne's surgery is scheduled in two days. Irin decided to drop Becky at home and joined Richie in the hospital.

Becky sat on the edge of her bed, her cane resting against the nightstand, her fingers gently tracing the edges of the third letter. Anne was tucked in safely back at the hospital with Richie for the night, and the quiet in the house felt unusually alive—buzzing with a tension she couldn’t name.

Freen.

She said the name silently to herself, tasting its edges. Not Sam. But still…

That voice. The timbre. The way it moved through space—not like a stranger’s, but like someone who remembered the curve of her silences. Becky had spent years building a life from absence. She knew when a ghost was more than a memory.

And Freen—whoever she truly was—was not just a doctor. Not just Anne’s surgeon.

Something pulsed beneath the surface.

Becky set the letter down, breathing slowly. Her fingers hovered over the drawer, where the other two letters were tucked neatly like folded wings.

One by one, she laid them out on the bed.

She ran her fingers along the paper, the corners, the textures. The silence in the room thickened as she listened again—to the tone of the letters, their rhythm, their breath.

Each one had felt like it had been written to her, not just for her. By someone who knew.

And now…

Now she was almost certain.

She stood and moved carefully to the window, fingertips brushing the curtain aside. Of course, she couldn’t see the sky, but she knew it was there—quiet and steady above her.

She spoke into the night, as if someone might answer.

“Im starting to feel like you're never coming back, are you?”

Her voice trembled, swallowed by the dark.

Back in the hospital…

Freen stood outside Anne’s room, watching the heart monitor rise and fall in steady rhythm. She had said she’d stay late to double-check the medication chart—but really, she couldn’t bring herself to leave.

The encounter with Becky had shaken her more than she expected. She tried her best to keep her voice stern, every since she left Becky all her joy in her voice has vanished.

She had seen it—the flicker in Becky’s face, the tilt of her head when she heard her voice. She had recognized the way Becky reached for silence when overwhelmed, the way her body stilled—not in fear, but in memory.

Freen pressed her palms together, grounding herself. She couldn’t rush this.

Couldn’t force the truth.

But she also couldn’t stop the ache that built every time she was near Becky. So close. And still a stranger.

A soft knock pulled her out of her thoughts.

It was Irin.

“You are not here” Irin said gently, nodding toward Anne’s room.

Freen nodded.

Irin studied her face.

Freen exhaled. “I think she knows. Not everything. But… something in her knows.”

Irin didn’t smile. She didn’t warn. She just said, “Then be ready. Because once she names what she knows… she’s going to want the truth.”

Freen looked back toward the window, the reflection of the monitors flickering in the glass.

“I’ve been writing her letters,” she said quietly. “Anonymous. I just… wanted to help without pulling her back into something she didn’t ask for.”

Irin’s voice softened. “Letters don’t stay anonymous forever. Especially when they sound like you.”

Freen closed her eyes.

And in that moment, Becky—back at home—folded the letters back into their envelopes with delicate hands, suddenly something popped in her head. She took the envelopes and the letter, literally pushed everything against her face and took a deep breath, there, the familiar scent. All she needs is another letter from this person.

She whispered the name aloud, to no one but herself

Freen. Without her realising there is a thin line of smile crept on her lips.