Stranger at the Wedding

Chapter 3: The Secret of the Basement

The moment the key was inserted into the keyhole, Ai Mili's finger stopped.

It wasn't fear that made her stop, but a sound - very faint, very far away, like someone breathing inside the wall. She listened intently, and the sound disappeared, leaving only the characteristic creaking of the old house, the expansion and contraction of wood, the flow of water in the pipes, and the sighs of a building full of secrets in the night.

She turned the key.

The safe door is open.

There was less inside than she had imagined. There were no bundles of cash, no jewelry, no will. Only a USB drive, a manila envelope, and a stack of photos.

She picked up the photo first.

First photo: A young woman, with black hair, high cheekbones, and an indescribable something in her eyes—not sadness, but alertness. She stands in front of a gray building, with a row of windowless walls behind her. On the back of the photo, written in pencil, is a line: "Elena Voronova, 1997, Bock County."

Her mother.

Her real, never-met, mother who had been dead for twenty-five years.

Ai Mili ran her fingers across that face. The photo paper beneath her fingertips was smooth and cold, but she felt a strange warmth, as if the woman's body temperature still lingered on the photo after twenty-five years.

Photo 2: The same woman, but in this one she's holding a baby. There's an expression on her face that Ai Mili only then realizes she's never seen in any photo before - it's not joy, not happiness, but something more primal, more animalistic. It's protection. It's a mother saying with her eyes, "This is my child, and I won't let anyone hurt her."

The baby's face was blocked by the sunlight, and only a small fist clutching the mother's collar could be seen.

The third photo: changed everything.

Two babies. Lying side by side in an incubator. They have the same face—no, not "the same," but exactly the same face. Identical eyebrows, identical nose bridges, and identical little mouths slightly open, as if they were dreaming of the same thing.

Twins.

She has a twin sister.

There are no words on the back of the photo, but the labels on the incubator are clearly captured: "Baby A, No. M-17-1. Baby B, No. M-17-2."

Ai Mili's fingers began to tremble. She recalled Margaret's last words, Veronica's mention of the "twin sister," and every sleepless night in her twenty-six years of life, that inexplicable sense of incompleteness—turns out it wasn't insomnia, but a person who had been awake in the darkness, separated for twenty-six years without ever meeting, calling out to her.

She opened the kraft paper envelope.

Inside was a medical file, with the Ministry of National Defense's emblem printed on the cover, and the word "Top Secret" written in red ink at the top of the cover. She flipped open the first page.

Subject Record for Project M-17

Name: [Blacked out]

Code Name: M-17-1 (Baby A) / M-17-2 (Baby B)

Date of Birth: April 15, 1998

Place of Birth: Berkshire Military Medical Facility (formerly St. Mary's Hospital, temporarily requisitioned)

Biological Father: Sterling, William James (Agent ID: 0082)

Biological Mother: Wo Luonuowa, Elena Ivanovna (Informant ID: E-19)

Note: Subject M-17-1 was transferred to Wentworth, Richard and Veronica as their legal adopted daughter on June 15, 1998, in accordance with the "Baby Exchange Agreement" (No. CE-1988-0615-L). Subject M-17-2 was transferred to [redacted].

Where was her twin sister sent?

Page 2, Page 3, Page 4 - everywhere M-17-2 was mentioned, including names, locations, and guardians, was completely blacked out with ink. The person who blacked it out pressed so hard that the pen tip pierced through the paper, as if it were a kind of anger or fear.

Ai Mili turned to the last page.

The last page is not blackened.

The last page reads: "On March 20, 1999, Subject M-17-2 died at the Berkshire County Military Medical Facility due to organ failure."

Death.

She is dead.

Ai Mili stared at the word, as if staring into a black hole. Organ failure. An infant under one year old, with organ failure. This was not a disease; it was an experiment. Her twin sister did not die of illness; she was killed.

No, perhaps not "killed". It's "used up". Like a depleted battery, like a pen that has run out of ink, like a tool that has fulfilled its mission. What was M-17-2's mission? Ai Mili didn't need to check the files to guess - she was the "backup", she was the "donor", she was the spare body whose organs could be taken at any time if Ai Mili got sick.

Her sister died of an illness that never happened.

Died for a possibility that never came.

Died for a sister she didn't even know existed.

Ai Mili closed the file, placed it on the table, and then opened the USB drive.

There is only one video file. File name: 1998.7.15.

She double - clicks.

The picture is grainy, with the image quality of a 1990s home video camera, the colors are yellowish, and there are snowflakes at the edges. The background is a tent - not a camping tent, but a military tent, with canvas walls, folding tables and chairs, and a map hanging on the wall, marked with red pushpins.

Young Richard Wentworth stands in the center of the frame, holding a baby in his arms. Beside him is Veronica, twenty years younger than him, her eyes not yet showing the later weariness and guilt, only a tense, restless excitement.

Richard said to the camera, "This is our daughter, Ai Mili. She's two months old today."

A man's voice came from behind the camera: "Let her look at me."

A man in military uniform walks into the frame. He is in his forties, with a star on his epaulettes - a general, or at least a brigadier general. His facial features bear an indescribable resemblance to Ai Mili, not in the sense of "looking alike," but rather "bone structure alike." The same shape of cheekbones, the same curve of the jawline, and the same distance between the eyes.

William Sterling.

He took the baby directly from Richard's hands, not with caution but with the self-assurance of an owner. He held her, looking down at her, his face expressionless—not blank, but the kind of expressionlessness maintained with great effort.

"This is your father," Veronica said, pointing at the camera, her voice pitched a bit too high, "Combat Commander William Sterling. You must remember his face."

Of course, the baby didn't respond.

But the camera slowly panned to the corner of the frame. There was an incubator with a transparent plastic cover, inside which lay a baby. A label was affixed to the incubator, and on the label was written in black marker: "Baby B, Code M-17-2."

The cover of the incubator was covered with a layer of mist, as if the temperature inside was higher than outside. Through the mist, Ai Mili saw the face of the baby - an exact replica of the "Ai Mili" in the center of the shot, only smaller, thinner, and paler.

Her twin sister.

Alive.

At least at the time the video was filmed, she was still alive.

During the last five seconds of the video, the camera shook, and a timestamp appeared at the bottom of the screen: July 15, 1998, 3:42 PM. Then the screen turned to snow.

Ai Mili stared at the snowflakes for a long time.

Then she heard a voice.

It's not the sound from the video, but the sound from reality. In the corridor outside the door, someone is passing by her study at an extremely slow pace and with extremely light steps.

She unplugged the USB drive, turned off the light, walked to the door, and pressed her ear against the wooden door.

The sound of footsteps stopped.

But the sound of breathing did not stop.

Someone is breathing outside the door. It's very light and even, like someone counting beats.

Ai Mili tightened her grip on the silver key in her pocket. The edge of the key dug into her palm, icy cold.

She didn't open the door.

She waits.

One minute. Two minutes. Five minutes.

The sound of breathing finally faded away, and the footsteps resumed, descending the stairs and disappearing on the first floor.

Ai Mili slowly backed away and sat back down on the chair in the darkness. The moon outside the window was covered by clouds, and the room was as dark as a sealed box.

She took out her phone and sent Jack a text message: "Tomorrow at 3 PM, National Archives. I'll be there. But you have to answer me a question first: Do you have a twin sister?"

The moment the send button was pressed, the phone signal bars changed from four to zero.

It's not that there is no signal.

It was cut off.

She looked at the "No Service" sign and suddenly laughed.

laughed very softly and briefly, like a musical note that had been cut off.

In this family, she has never been alone.

She has never been alone.