pointed toward the metallic gleam.
Gideon’s brow furrowed.
She wrote:
There is something else inside.
He stared at the sentence.
Then shook his head violently.
Doctors looked.
“When?”
He read her lips imperfectly.
She wrote it.
When did doctors examine you?
After accident. Then years later.
Rosalie stared at the ear again.
Something about the story felt wrong.
She cleaned away more blood.
A narrow scar curved behind Gideon’s ear, almost hidden beneath his hair.
It did not resemble the ragged scar left by a fall.
It was straight.
Deliberate.
Like a cut made by a blade.
Rosalie touched it gently.
Gideon flinched.
His expression changed.
Not from pain.
From memory.
He seized the notebook.
My mother said they cut me after the accident.
Rosalie’s heart quickened.
Who?
Gideon’s pencil stopped.
Outside, wind battered snow against the cabin walls.
The fire cracked behind them.
Finally, Gideon wrote:
Doctor Ashford.
Rosalie
