Chapter 15

— Nolan's POV —

I didn't know what I expected to find. But I knew I couldn't ignore it anymore.

If I wanted answers, I had to start from the only place I could still call a beginning.

The orphanage.

I decided to visit the orphanage. If there were any answers, they had to start from there.

The orphanage looked… smaller than I remembered.

But everything else was the same.

The old rusting gate, the swing swaying faintly in the breeze, the chipped paint on the front door — it all looked the same. Too much the same. Like time had passed for me, but not for this place.

I stood outside for a while, just breathing. Letting the air settle in my chest like it used to — like safety.

It was strange how nostalgia could hurt.

When I finally walked in, it felt like stepping into a faded photograph. The smell of old books and floor polish. The hallway lined with drawings from kids I didn't know. My footsteps felt too loud. Too adult.

Then I saw her.

The director. Kind-eyed, a little older now, but still carrying that calm warmth I remembered.

She opened the office door and froze for a moment — then smiled. "Dr. Vale," she said, warmly. "Still too tall for my doorframes."

A laugh escaped me. "You haven't changed at all."

"You liar," she said, and pulled me into a hug. "It's been too long. The kids still talk about the doctor who brought them pastries and storybooks."

"I should've come sooner," I murmured.

She waved me inside, offered tea like she always used to. And for a little while, it was easy — light conversation, old stories, laughter I didn't know I still had in me.

But eventually, the weight returned.

There was a reason I came.

I set my cup down and glanced at her. "Can I ask you something? Something a little strange."

"Of course," she said, folding her hands on the desk.

I hesitated, fingers curling slightly. "Do you remember how I ended up here? Back then?"

Her expression softened, but her eyes clouded with memory. "You were outside our gate. Alone. Unconscious. There was blood, and for a moment I thought—" she paused. "We called a doctor. You slept for days. When you finally woke, you didn't remember anything."

I swallowed hard. "And you didn't try to make me remember?"

She shook her head gently. "We were told not to. Sometimes memory loss protects children from things they're not ready to face. We just… gave you a new start."

I nodded, even though it didn't settle anything inside me.

"One more thing," I said, carefully. "Do you know anyone named Varek Straven? Or… have you heard that name before?"

She furrowed her brow. "No. Should I have?"

"No. I was just curious."

She didn't press.

She never did.

But when she left to get something, I wandered to the shelf behind her desk — the one with old photo albums stacked neatly.

Something about them called to me.

I pulled one down. Pages yellowed at the corners, photos from years ago — smiling kids, old volunteers, some I recognized faintly, most I didn't.

Then I froze.

One photo. A charity dinner.

And in the corner — a man I knew too well.

The director of my hospital.

Standing behind the woman I'd just had tea with, smiling like he belonged.

My blood turned cold.

When she returned, I pointed to him. "Who's this?"

"Oh," she said, surprised. "That's Mr. Albrecht. He used to donate quite a lot. I haven't seen him in years."

I nodded slowly, heart beating faster.

I tucked the photo into my coat.

I needed to get back.

But ever since I stepped outside, I felt it again.

That weight. That sense.

Like eyes on me.

And this time… I knew it wasn't Varek.

Because I'd learned something I hate to admit:

When it's him, I can tell.

The air feels heavier. My skin prickles. The temperature shifts.

But this?

This was different.

Worse.

Who else was watching me?

And why now?