Chapter 1 - The Crescent Moon
The blue ink of her words still echoed in my ears, but it was the crescent moon on her ankle that shattered the quiet routine I had lived in for three agonizing years.
"Only I have a mark like this," Lena said, her bright blue eyes blinking innocently as she took another small, reverent bite of the chocolate cake.
My breath hitched, catching painfully in my throat. I stared at the faint, crescent-shaped birthmark just above her left shoe. The shape, the exact positioning, the pale skin surrounding it—it was identical to Callie’s. Not merely similar, but an exact duplicate of the mark I used to kiss every single night before tucking my three-year-old daughter into bed.
The three years of crushing silence, of closed curtains, of turning Callie’s framed photograph face down every night, suddenly felt like a lie. A sick, cruel joke played by a world that had stolen her away.
"Lena," I managed to say, my voice trembling so violently that the coffee cup in front of me rattled against its saucer. "Who... who told you about the moon mark?"
"Mommy," she answered simply, swinging her legs back and forth beneath the wooden chair. "She says it’s our secret. She says we have to keep our heads down so nobody notices us."
A cold sweat broke out across my back. A dirty, unwashed six-year-old roaming a bakery alone, claiming her mother was waiting outside while hiding her identity like a fugitive.
"Where is your mommy right now, Lena?" I asked, leaning forward across the table, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. "Can you take me to her?"
Lena stopped chewing, her small face suddenly clouding over with a shadow of caution that no child her age should ever possess. She looked toward the glass bakery door, then back at me.
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"She told me not to talk to strangers," Lena whispered, her voice dropping so low I almost couldn't hear it over the hum of the bakery's refrigerator. "Especially men with black coats."
Before I could reassure her, the small brass bell above the bakery door jingled sharply, cutting through the heavy tension in the air.
