However, she looked down at her grandmother, who was shivering like a frightened child, and knew she couldn’t risk causing a scene.
“You absolutely cannot leave her here like this, especially not when she is clearly in this state of mind,” Callie pleaded, reaching out toward the old woman.
Joel shifted the truck into gear and said, “We have lives to live, Callie, and you do not have a husband or children to look after, so you have plenty of time.”
The truck roared to life and sped away down the quiet suburban street before Callie could even gather the strength to tell them off.
Geneva’s old leather suitcase lay by the gate, half-open and spilling out dirty laundry, an incomplete bag of medications, and a single faded photograph from her youth.
The first few days in the small apartment were a silent, living hell that tested the limits of Callie’s sanity and patience.
Geneva would wake up in the middle of the night screaming at the top of her lungs that someone was trying to break in to steal her antique jewelry.
Then she would spend the next several hours weeping quietly because she couldn’t find her husband, who had tragically passed away twelve years ago.
Sometimes she recognized Callie and squeezed her hand with surprising strength, but other times she would push her away in fear, asking who this stranger was.
Callie worked from home fulfilling small custom baking orders, barely earning enough money to cover the rent, the rising electricity bills, and basic groceries.
Despite her financial struggles, she started buying specialized diapers, vitamin supplements, and notebooks to document every mood swing and every strange word.
One quiet Tuesday afternoon, while Callie was feeding her chicken broth with rice, Geneva stopped shaking and looked at her with intense focus.
Her eyes, for the very first time in weeks, seemed clear and bright, lacking that usual fog of confusion that dominated her daily existence.
“You didn’t lock me in the room, did you, Callie?” she whispered, her voice steady and surprisingly sharp.
Callie slowly set the spoon down on the table, feeling a chill run down her spine as she stared into her grandmother’s sudden clarity.
“Who do you mean, Grandma, who locked you up?” Callie asked, hoping to get some answers about what those monsters had done.
The old woman blinked repeatedly, as if the memory was a physical object slipping out of her trembling hands back into the dark.
