I followed her into the small office, the floorboards creaking beneath our feet.

The room was cramped but organized, a wooden desk covered in papers, shelves lined with ledgers and donation records, a single window letting in pale morning light.

The woman gestured for me to sit in the chair across from her desk, then settled into her own seat with the practiced ease of someone who'd spent decades in this exact spot.

She reached for one of the ledgers on the shelf behind her, pulling down a leather-bound book that looked older than the others. Worn edges, faded spine, pages yellowed with age.

My eyes caught on the cover as she set it on the desk.

Gold lettering, still legible despite the years.

I blinked.

"Excuse me?"

The woman looked up from where she'd begun skimming through the pages, her finger tracing down columns of neat handwriting. "Yes?"

I leaned forward slightly, my voice uncertain. "Why is my mother's name written on the book cover?"

She blinked, following my gaze to the ledger, then back to my face. Understanding dawned in her expression, softening the guardedness that had been there before.

"Oh, this." She touched the cover gently, almost reverently.

"Your mother was one of our charity supporters. Not just any supporter, one of our highest contributors. For years, she funded repairs, food supplies, winter clothing for the children." Her finger tapped the ledger.

"We kept records of everything she donated. Named few things after her in gratitude."

I stared at the gold lettering, something tight forming in my chest.

"I didn't know this," I said quietly.

"She wouldn't have told." The woman's smile was sad, knowing.

"Lady Catherine wasn't the type to seek recognition. She just... did what she thought was right." She paused, then gestured toward something on the shelf behind me. "You came here once, you know. When you were very small."

I turned to look. A small wooden horse sat on the shelf, carved with surprising detail despite obvious age and wear. Paint flaking off in places, one ear slightly chipped.

"You liked that very much," the woman continued, and I could hear the smile in her voice now.

"Threw quite the tantrum when it was time to leave. Wanted to take it home with you."

Heat crept up my neck. "What?"

She laughed. "Of course you won't remember. You were just this little," She held her hands out, indicating a small child. "When Lady Catherine brought you with her."

Her expression shifted then, the laughter fading into something more solemn. Her hands stilled on the ledger, fingers resting against the page.

"That was also the last time she visited," she said quietly. "Not long after that, we heard she'd passed. The donations stopped. Lord Raith never continued them, and we..." She trailed off, shaking her head.

"We understood. Grief does strange things to people."

Silence settled over the office.

I didn't know what to say.

The woman studied me for a moment, her expression softening further. "You were very young when she passed, weren't you?"

"Yes," I said quietly. "I don't... I don't remember much about her. I don't even know what she looked like. Her voice. Any of it."

The admission felt heavier than it should have. Like confessing to forgetting something sacred.

The woman's eyes filled with understanding. She stood and moved to a small cabinet in the corner, opening a drawer and pulling out a faded portrait in a simple wooden frame.

"We kept this," she said, returning to the desk and setting it down in front of me. "She gave it to us years ago, said we could use it for fundraising if we needed. To put a face to the name." She pushed it gently toward me. "But we never had the heart to use it that way."

I looked down.

The portrait was old, slightly yellowed at the edges, but clear enough. A woman stood in what looked like the orphanage's front garden, surrounded by children. Her posture was relaxed, natural, one hand resting on a young girl's shoulder.

She had silver-blonde hair that caught the light, falling in soft waves past her shoulders. Blue eyes, even in the faded portrait, they were striking, clear and kind. Her smile was gentle, genuine, the kind that reached all the way to those eyes.

She looked... peaceful. Happy.

And beautiful.

"You look just like her, you know," the woman said softly. "Same eyes. Same shape to your face. When you walked in, for a moment I thought..." She stopped, shaking her head. "You're her son, through and through."

I stared at the photograph, unable to look away.

And something twisted violently in my chest...

She was Jin Raith's mother. Not mine.

I just inherited his body. His memories. His life.

This woman—Catherine Raith—she has nothing to do with me.

So why did it feel like someone had reached into my ribcage and squeezed? Why did I feel like I'd lost something valuable, something irreplaceable, like a part of myself had been carved out and I was only now noticing the empty space it left behind?

I never knew her. I never lost her. This grief isn't mine.

But my hands trembled as I held the frame. My throat tightened until breathing hurt. My vision blurred at the edges.

So why does it feel like mine?

Tears welled up, hot and unwelcome, pressing against the backs of my eyes.

I closed them quickly, forcing the tears back, and took a slow, controlled breath.

Is this the body reacting? Jin's memories bleeding through? Some residual attachment I inherited along with everything else?

Or is it just... recognizing what was lost? What could have been?

I didn't have an answer.

After a moment, I opened my eyes and carefully set the portrait back on the desk, sliding it toward the woman.

"Thank you," I said, my voice rougher than I wanted it to be. "For letting me see her."

She gestured to the portrait. "Would you like to take it?"

"No." The word came out rougher than I intended.

I cleared my throat. "No, keep it here. Where the children can see it. That's... that's what she would have wanted."

The woman smiled, understanding in her eyes. "You're more like her than you know."

She took the frame gently, her expression full of sympathy that made my chest ache worse.

"You can come back anytime," she said. "If you ever want to see it again. Or if you just want to talk about her. I have stories, if you'd like to hear them."

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

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