Elaine cradled the phone between her shoulder and ear. The doctor’s voice crackled softly through the line.
“I’m sorry, Luna Elaine. We’ve searched every archive, every backup. There’s nothing.”
“Gone?” she repeated, her voice quiet, almost amused.
“Yes,” the doctor said, his worry tangible. “All we have left are your records from a few years ago, before your symptoms began worsening. I don’t understand how this happened. I don’t know who could have done this.”
“It’s alright,” Elaine said, cutting him off gently. “Really. Thank you for letting me know.”
She ended the call before he could protest further and sat up on the couch. The tension that had rippled across her shoulders slowly faded. She tied her hair back neatly, her movements calm and deliberate.
Behind her
