And somehow, it felt like she already knew.
Jerry stared at the glowing name on the screen.
Madame Hannah calling.
For a moment, the world felt unreal. The breeze moved gently through the trees. Somewhere far off, a gardener watered flowers. But inside Jerry’s chest, a storm was breaking open.
Mirabel grabbed his wrist.
“Don’t answer,” she whispered urgently.
Her fingers were cold.
The phone kept ringing.
His mother rarely called twice. She believed people should always be available to her.
Jerry looked at Mirabel, then at the screen.
Then he pressed decline.
The ringing stopped.
Silence rushed back in.
Mirabel let out a shaky breath.
Jerry turned fully toward her.
“Play it.”
Mirabel nodded. Her thumb hovered again. Jerry noticed just how badly she was trembling. Not acting. Not exaggerating. Real fear.
She pressed play.
At first there was static.
Then a familiar voice—calm, sharp, controlled.
Madame Hannah.
“I am telling you, it must be done quietly.”
Jerry’s heart skipped.
He knew that voice.
That was his mother’s private voice, the one she used when she did not want witnesses.
The recording continued.
“She is weak already. The girl barely eats. Everyone already believes she is sick from stress.”
Jerry’s fingers tightened around the bench.
Mirabel watched him carefully.
“I have waited five years,” Madam Hannah’s voice said. “Five years without a child. My son is the last of this family name. That woman will not bury my lineage.”
Something cracked inside Jerry.
