Chapter 7: The Master Bedroom
While the Sterling family was led away in chains, Ellie stood in the doorway of the grand master suite on the third floor of the Fifth Avenue mansion.
The room had been preserved exactly as it was: sunlit bay windows overlooking the golden trees of Central Park, hand-carved mahogany furniture, and soft cream carpets.
On the dresser sat an antique silver baby rattle and an engraved silver frame containing the only photograph Margaret had kept: baby Evelyn sleeping in her nursery.
Margaret walked in quietly, holding a glass of fresh lemonade.
""This was your room, Ellie,"" Margaret said softly. ""I kept it clean every week for twenty years. I refused to let anyone change a single piece of furniture.""
Ellie walked across the room, touching the cool silver of the rattle. A faint, distant memory—the warmth of a lullaby, the scent of lavender soap—rippled across her subconscious.
""I used to have a recurring dream when I was sleeping on the cot in the group home,"" Ellie said, turning to her mother with tears shining in her eyes. ""I dreamed of a window with white curtains and a woman with silver hair singing to me. I thought it was just a fairytale I made up to survive.""
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Margaret pulled her daughter into her arms, kissing her forehead. ""It was never a fairytale, darling. It was a promise. You are home now.""
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