Chapter 6: The Hidden Bead

After dinner, Michael asked if he could see my old room.

He stood up, stretching, asking Mom if it was okay to show his new wife the place I’d grown up. Everyone nodded, the request perfectly normal.

For a married couple, this wasn’t odd.

Maple practically bounced on her toes, eager to show off her new role as daughter and wife.

With Mom’s permission, Maple eagerly led Michael through the old house to my room.

She guided him down the narrow hallway, pointing out framed photos and school awards, making small talk about my favorite colors and the time I painted the walls sunflower yellow.

The room was spotless; Mom had arranged for someone to clean and water the plants every day.

The sunlight filtered through lace curtains, glinting off the old trophies and stacks of childhood novels. My desk was neat, the bedspread tucked tight.

Even though I was gone, the place was still warm, everything just so.

The scent of lavender lingered in the air, the dresser still holding my favorite perfumes and little keepsakes.

“I remember there was a maple tree outside your window. Why is it gone now?” Michael looked around and suddenly asked.

He stood at the window, hands in his pockets, staring at the empty patch of dirt where the old tree once grew.

I shuddered, instantly shaken from my sadness, staring intently at Maple.

Her back stiffened, but her face stayed calm—a perfect mask.

But she stayed calm, smiling. “It’s weird. It grew for years, but right before the wedding, it suddenly died.”

She shrugged, voice light. “Guess it was just old age, or maybe the soil got bad.”

“Died?” Michael sounded puzzled.

He turned, eyebrow raised, eyes narrowing in that way he did when something didn’t add up.

“Yeah, I figured, dead is dead—it’s just a tree, nothing to get hung up on.”

She reached for his hand, trying to steer him away from the window, away from questions.

Before Michael could ask more, she pulled him inside.

She changed the subject, chattering about how cute my childhood toys were, how much she loved the quilt Mom had made.

I didn’t know Michael well, but I knew he was sharp, even with his tough reputation.

He missed nothing—every twitch, every lie, every subtle change in mood. It made me wonder if I’d ever really known him at all.

He wouldn’t ask about the maple tree for no reason.

Maybe, he really had figured something out.

He was never careless with details. I watched him watch her, weighing every word.

But how could that be?

Even my closest family hadn’t seen through Maple’s disguise—how could Michael?

I clung to the hope that love—real, stubborn love—could spot the difference.

Inside, the house was spotless—not a speck of dust anywhere.

Every shelf gleamed, photos lined up in perfect rows. The air buzzed with the low hum of the old radiator.

As soon as you walked in, a familiar vanilla scent greeted you.

It was the smell of home—warm, sweet, a comfort I’d taken for granted.

But the owner of the room was long gone.

No matter how clean, how perfect, the emptiness in the air was sharp as a knife.

Maple was about to get close to Michael when Mom called her away.

She left with a smile, promising to help set the table for dessert. Her footsteps echoed down the hallway.

I didn’t follow.

Neither did Michael.

He stood perfectly still, staring at the spot where Maple had stood.

After Maple left, Michael suddenly jumped up onto the closet shelf, then quickly dropped down.

He moved with a sudden energy, pulling the closet door wide, climbing onto the bottom shelf with surprising grace for someone his size. He reached up, feeling along the frame.

Opening his palm, a glass bead lay quietly in his hand.

He rolled it between his fingers, holding it to the light. It glowed faintly, the color shifting in the lamplight.

Exactly the same as the one on Maple’s necklace.

It was the one she’d removed to store my eye.

Maple claimed she lost it, but had actually hidden it in a crack above the closet.

He studied it for a long moment, then slipped it into his pocket, face set in grim determination.

When I looked at Michael again, his face was unreadable, but the hand holding the glass bead trembled slightly. And in that trembling, I saw the first crack in Maple’s perfect mask—a chance for the real me to break through.