HIS LIES,HER FUNERAL

THE WOMAN IN THE PHOTOGRAPH

Florence’s late afternoon sun bled gold into the dusty windowpanes of the bookstore’s upper floor. Kiera stood with the photograph in her hands again—the same one from Charles’s drawer. Three girls. Uniforms. Blank expressions. Herself included, though her memory of that time was hollow. The name engraved on the building haunted her: Viridis Global Center for Girls.

Julian stepped in quietly, carrying two espresso cups. “You didn’t sleep.”

“I remembered something,” she murmured, eyes still on the photo. “One of the girls. The one standing to my left. I think her name was Sura.”

Julian looked closer. “You’re sure?”

“No. But it’s the first name I’ve heard in my head that didn’t feel like a guess.”

He nodded slowly. “Then we find Sura.”

“How?”

“I dig. You trigger memories.”

She smiled without warmth. “A lovely partnership.”

Julian handed her a cup. “We do what we must.”

By evening, he had a lead.

“Sura Devine. Malaysian-American. Vanished in 2015. Listed as deceased in a house fire in Berlin, but her body was never found.”

Kiera’s chest tightened. “What was she doing in Berlin?”

Julian shrugged. “The address she stayed at… was registered to a shell company linked to The Circle.”

“Then maybe she didn’t vanish. Maybe she escaped.”

“Or was silenced.”

They exchanged a long, heavy glance. Neither wanted to say it aloud, but the stakes were climbing fast. Kiera knew she wasn’t just chasing ghosts anymore. She was chasing the person she used to be—and all the others buried with her.

They left for Berlin the next morning.

The flat Sura had rented was in a forgotten corner of the city, a crumbling gray building on a quiet street. According to records, a fire had gutted the apartment in February 2015. But standing there, Kiera noticed something odd—the neighboring buildings had no fire damage. The flames, if there were any, had been contained. Controlled.

Julian picked the lock on the front door. Inside, the smell of ash still lingered. Burnt paper. Plastic. Memory. The walls were scorched black, but not destroyed. A metal trunk sat half-melted near the fireplace.

Kiera crouched.

Inside the trunk: a charred journal, its edges crumbling.

She opened it.

Scrawled inside, on the only legible page, were five words:

“She lives in Saint Denis.”

Julian leaned over her shoulder. “Paris?”

“She lives,” Kiera whispered. “Sura’s alive.”

Saint Denis was cold and gray when they arrived. The working-class Parisian suburb bustled with life, but underneath the noise, there was tension tightened shoulders, quiet glances, stories no one spoke aloud.

They started with shelters and clinics. Julian posed as a reporter investigating runaway trafficking victims. Kiera simply watched—faces, names, eyes. She didn’t recognize anyone. But on the third day, a clinic nurse paused at the photo Julian showed.

“She was here. Maybe five years ago,” the woman said, her French-tinted English slow. “She didn’t stay long. But she left something.”

The nurse returned with a small wooden box, dusty and sealed with twine.

“She said to give it to someone who looked like her,” the nurse said. “Someone haunted.”

Kiera took it with trembling hands.

They opened it in the hotel.

Inside: a USB drive, a folded photo of the three girls again—this time with names scribbled on the back: Kiera, Sura, Yelena—and a single note:

“If you’re reading this, it means they found me. Or I let them. I couldn’t live afraid anymore. But if you remember, Kiera, find Yelena. She was the first to run. The only one who never broke. She’ll know what to do.”

Kiera gripped the note tightly. “She’s alive. Sura’s alive.”

Julian inserted the USB into his laptop. A folder opened. Inside: dozens of scanned documents, video clips, therapy reports, and psychological profiles.

Project Dove files.

Kiera leaned closer. The names made her head spin. Her file was there. So were dozens of others. Girls aged between twelve and seventeen, all subjected to “empathy reconditioning,” “emotional reprogramming,” “behavioral cleansing.”

And at the bottom: Initiator – Dr. Celine Rowe

Julian’s voice dropped. “This could bring the whole thing down.”

Kiera stared at the screen. “Not yet. We need Yelena.”

Tracking Yelena was harder. She’d gone off-grid. No legal record after 2012. But Julian found one thread—a photograph from a protest in Nairobi. A blurry face in the background, bearing a striking resemblance.

“She disappeared. Then joined resistance circles,” Julian said. “She’s not hiding. She’s fighting.”

“She always was the firebrand,” Kiera whispered. The words felt unfamiliar, but true.

“She’s your opposite,” Julian added.

Kiera shook her head. “She’s my beginning.”

They arrived in Nairobi under darkness. Contacts Julian knew from past investigations helped them navigate the underground. Finally, in a small village near Nakuru, they found her.

Yelena stood beneath a tree, speaking to a group of women in Swahili. Her posture was firm, voice commanding. She turned when she saw Kiera approach. Her eyes narrowed.

“I thought you were dead,” she said.

Kiera stepped forward slowly. “I thought you were a dream.”

They stared at each other for a long time.

Then Yelena stepped forward and hugged her—hard, shaking.

“I knew you’d come back,” she whispered.

Later that night, they sat by a small fire outside Yelena’s home.

“I escaped before the final phase,” Yelena said. “Before they could bleach me.”

“Bleach?” Julian asked.

Yelena looked at him. “That’s what they called it. Bleaching the memory. They took everything that made us angry, wild, resistant—and scrubbed it out. Replaced it with obedience. That’s why she”—she nodded at Kiera—“forgot us.”

Kiera’s eyes watered. “I didn’t forget you. They stole you.”

Yelena nodded. “And now you’re stealing yourself back.”

Kiera showed her the files. The USB. The note from Sura.

“She’s alive,” Yelena confirmed. “Last I heard, she was planning to return. To expose them.”

“Where is she now?”

Yelena’s face darkened. “She was taken last month. I got word from a source in Geneva. They called it a ‘retrieval mission.’ She’s either imprisoned again—or worse.”

Kiera’s hands curled into fists. “We’ll find her.”

Julian nodded. “And when we do, we burn them down.”

That night, Kiera couldn’t sleep. She walked out to the field behind Yelena’s home. The stars above were endless. Quiet. Watching.

She thought of Charles.

Of Celine.

Of the room with silver chairs and soft music that rewrote girls into property.

She thought of her younger self.

And she made a vow.

They would pay. All of them.

Not with money.

With truth.

The next morning, Yelena gave her a black envelope.

“This is from the beginning,” she said.

Inside: a photograph of a child. Six years old. Hollow-eyed. Labeled only by a number.

Kiera’s chest tightened. It was her.

“They started earlier than you remember,” Yelena said. “And they didn’t plan to stop.”

Kiera stared at the image, then looked at Yelena.

“Then neither will I.”