THE LAST PROMISE PART TWO - THE HOUSE BY THE SEA

PART TWO — THE HOUSE BY THE SEA I spent the next six hours trying to find Elena. Hospitals. Friends. Family. Her workplace. Everywhere. Nothing. It was as if she had simply decided to stop existing. Then, at 7:43 that evening, someone knocked on my door. It was an old man I'd never seen before. He handed me an envelope. “From Elena.” I grabbed it. “Where is she?” He looked at me for a moment. “You really love her?” “What kind of question is that?” “The kind that determines whether you open this envelope.” I tore it open. Inside was a photograph of an old white house beside the sea. On the back: Come alone. There was an address. I drove there that night. The house looked abandoned. The windows were broken. The garden had grown wild. But the front door was unlocked. Inside, everything was covered in dust except one thing. A table. And on the table was Elena's favourite perfume. I knew it immediately. I followed the smell upstairs. There was a bedroom. Inside was a wardrobe filled with Elena's clothes. Dozens of them. Dresses I'd never seen. Shoes I'd never seen. Photographs. Letters. Passports. I picked one up. The passport belonged to Elena. Except the name wasn't Elena. Elena Marlowe. I opened another. Same face. Different name. Then another. Different name. Different country. Different date of birth. My hands started shaking. Who the hell was I living with? Behind the passports was a box. Inside it was a newspaper clipping. I recognized the photograph immediately. It was Elena. But she looked younger. The headline read: MISSING WOMAN PRESUMED DEAD AFTER CAR CRASH. The date was twelve years earlier. I read the article. A wealthy family had lost their daughter in an accident. Her body was never found. Her name was Elena Marlowe. I sat down. Then I noticed something I'd missed. A second photograph. This one showed Elena standing beside a young man. The young man was me. Except… I had never met her before that restaurant. At least, that's what I thought. I turned the photograph over. There was a date. Twelve years ago. And underneath it, in Elena's handwriting: He doesn't remember me. My phone rang. Unknown number. I answered. A man's voice whispered: “Now you understand why she chose you.” “Who are you?” “You're asking the wrong question.” “What should I ask?” He paused. Then: “What happened to you twelve years ago?”

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