Page 15 of A Sister's Secret

He blinked, the bloodshot orbs seeking focus. For a moment, there was silence as if the question stirred something deep and long-buried within him. But then, the walls came up, his expression hardening like the crust of ice on a winter lake.

"Maybe I just enjoy my own company more than others," Oliver retorted, a bitter edge to his words. His eyes moved away from her, focusing instead on a crack in the plaster on the opposite wall as though it held answers she could not provide. "Or maybe you don't have to stick around if it bothers you so much."

It was a shield thrown up in haste, a deflection from the pain that gnawed at his insides—a pain he knew all too well but refused to acknowledge.

Lisa's breath hitched, her heart warring with the urge to reach out and the knowledge that he might push her away. Her spirit cried out to heal the rift between them. Oliver’s words stung, but they also unveiled the depth of his struggle, the fight that lay ahead, and the love she knew was worth every scar it may leave upon her heart.

Lisa's resolve solidified as she looked down at the man whose heart she knew was a labyrinth of love and pain. She knelt beside him, her hand trembling as it found his, the roughness of his woodworker's calluses brushing against her skin. Tears welled in her warm hazel eyes, not out of pity but born from a wellspring of love that refused to run dry despite the drought of their recent days.

"Oliver," she whispered, her voice laced with a strength that belied the moisture glistening on her cheeks. “I can't pretend to understand the ghosts you're fighting or the demons that drive you to seek solace in these bottles. But I do know this—our love is not a casualty of these battles. Not if we don’t let it be."

Her words were a lifeline cast into turbulent waters, hoping he'd grasp it and pull himself ashore.

She brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead, the intimacy of the gesture a stark contrast to the distance that had crept between them. The room was still, filled only with the sound of her soft breathing and the occasional shifting of Oliver on the couch.

"Tonight, the kids and I will come back home. They miss their father; they need you, Oliver…. We all do," she continued, her voice gaining momentum, cutting through the silence like the first rays of dawn piercing a night sky. "And I want to believe—no, I need to believe—that you'll be here waiting for us, not just in body but in spirit too."

Lisa's tears fell freely now, tracing paths along her cheeks as her heart held onto a fragile hope.

"This might be your last chance to change, to fight back for the life we've built together. We still have hope. Don’t let it slip away, Oliver. Don’t let us slip away."

The air hung heavy with her declaration, an unspoken ultimatum wrapped in the tenderness of a woman who had weathered storms yet still navigated by the stars of her love. Her gaze never wavered from his face, searching for a sign, any indication that her words had reached him, that they had ignited a spark in the darkened room where he lay.

“I have found… places that might help. We can look at them together and see what might work for you. I will help you, my love. Through every step of your recovery.”

For a brief, heart-stopping moment, Lisa saw the flicker of something vulnerable and raw in Oliver’s eyes before he closed them again, retreating to whatever refuge he sought in sleep. But she had said her piece and laid her heart bare before him, offering both a lifeline and a challenge. Now, it was up to him.

Lisa stood motionless, the weight of her words still reverberating in the air. Oliver's silence was a vast chasm between them, filled with the echoes of their past and the quiet ticking of the clock on the mantel—a reminder that time was slipping by. She studied his face, searching for a hint of the man who once chased sunsets with her, whose laughter was the melody to which her heart beat. But the lines of his features gave nothing away, his eyes closed to her plea.

The quiet was oppressive, yet within its depths, Lisa clung to an unwavering belief—an ember of hope that stubbornly refused to be extinguished. She saw the strength that had carried Oliver through storms at sea, the tenderness he reserved for their children, the love that had once been unshakable. It was there, she assured herself, somewhere beneath the haze of alcohol and regret. He would find his way back; he had to.

Shaking off the uncertainty that threatened to unravel her, Lisa straightened her shoulders, a silent promise etching itself into her resolve. The tears that had cascaded down her cheeks now felt cold against her skin as she wiped them away, each one a testament to the battles they had faced together. This was not the time for surrender—it was the hour for courage and faith in the vows they had made in the presence of family and friends.

With resolute steps, she moved through the home that bore the marks of their life together—framed photographs that whispered of happier times, handprints on the walls from little fingers that had explored every nook and cranny. The familiar creak of the floorboards under her feet was a comforting cadence as she pulled on her apron, the armor of normalcy she donned each day.

Today, like every day, she would open the café, grind the beans, steam the milk, and greet the regulars with a smile that reached her eyes. And perhaps, just maybe, today would be the day that Oliver would push through the swinging doors, sober and clear-eyed, ready to mend the fractures in their shared existence.

As she walked down the stairs to their café, the town slowly waking around her, Lisa held onto the thrill of possibility, the suspense of the unknown. Her heart warmed at the thought of Oliver sitting beside her once more, crafting wood into art as he used to, the scent of sawdust mingling with the aroma of coffee. A future where fear and doubt were replaced with trust and healing stretched out before her, tantalizing in its potential.

She unlocked the door to the café, flipping the sign to “Open” with a flick of her wrist. The bell above the door would jingle with the entry of each patron, and Lisa hoped, with every fiber of her being, that Oliver would join her—he was her partner in life, her co-conspirator in love. For now, she would wait, serve, and smile, the heartbeat of the small town steady and reassuring even as her own raced with anticipation for what the day might bring.

Chapter Seven

Lisa perched on the edge of a creaky chair behind the counter, the scent of freshly ground coffee beans mingling with the undercurrent of unease that never quite left her. The café hummed with its usual afternoon lull, patrons engrossed in their world of whispers and the soft clink of porcelain. Her fingers, marked by tiny scars of resilience, drummed against the wood, betraying her inner turmoil. Oliver hadn’t come down to join her as she had hoped. Instead, she heard him leave a few hours earlier and had no idea where he was going. It filled her with worry. But she hadn’t given up hope. She cast a furtive glance over her shoulder, ensuring prying eyes were occupied before hurrying into the back office.

The box of memories Oliver had been so obsessed with going through was inconspicuous and frayed at the edges, as though it had journeyed through time itself. Lisa's heart, usually so steady and warm like the hearth of their family home, now galloped with a blend of trepidation and resolve. She opened the lid with a steadiness she didn't feel, revealing its secrets. On top was a photograph stained by age but safeguarded by memory.

Oliver's youthful grin was unmistakable, his protective arm slung around a younger girl. Lisa’s hazel eyes softened for a moment, touched by the innocence of the young siblings. Oliver was in his early twenties; Michelle was in her late teenage years. This had to have been taken shortly before she disappeared. But as she peered closer, the quaint image turned sinister. Behind them stood a figure, barely discernible among the shadows of an old oak tree. It was not just a trick of the light or the whisper of an old tale; it was the outline of someone watching, lurking.

Her pulse quickened, and she leaned in, scrutinizing every inch of the grainy background. The figure seemed deliberately concealed by the dappling sunlight, its presence an enigma that clawed at the corners of her mind.

With each ragged breath, courage swelled within her chest, warming her veins with fear and adrenaline. The photo trembled in her grasp, yet Lisa's determination was unyielding, and the peculiarity of it all ignited a fire in her belly.

Fingers flying over the keyboard, Lisa's relentless pursuit of truth echoed in the rhythmic tapping. The café, usually a sanctuary of warmth and chatter, now felt like a silent accomplice to her secret investigation. She toggled between tabs, scanning line after line of digitalized newspaper archives. The glow of her laptop screen cast an eerie luminescence on her face, accentuating the resolve etched into her features.

"Come on; come on," she muttered under her breath, as if coaxing the secrets to rise from the depths of the internet. Hours trickled by unnoticed, the steady hum of the coffee machine in the background a distant reminder of the world outside her growing obsession.

Then, amidst the blur of headlines and dates, something caught her eye—a ten-year-old article that seemed to pulse with significance. Her heart hitched as she clicked on it, bringing the faded print to life against the backlight of her screen. "Local Woman Vanishes Without a Trace." The headline was stark, the story beneath it chilling in its brevity.

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