I picked up the package, the paper dry and clean.

And the game began again.

I tore the paper open, my fingers cold and clumsy in the dim light.

Inside, there was a small leather book and a single photograph.

The photograph was of Mary, young and smiling, standing in front of this very house.

And on the back of the photo, a single line was written in blue ink.

“This was never Ethan’s castle,” it read.

“It was yours.”

I stared at the words, the room suddenly spinning around me.

And from the second floor, the sound of a footstep creaked on the floorboards, coming toward the stairs.

I held the book tight to my chest and looked up into the darkness.

“Who’s there?” I called out.

The footsteps stopped at the top of the stairs, a shadow appearing against the dark wood railing.

And then, a light switched on, revealing the person standing there.

It was a woman, her face pale but familiar, her eyes looking down at me with a quiet, tired warmth.

Mary.

She was not in the hospital.