Page 6 of Hannah.

Inside, the grand foyer of the estate greets me with its usual imposing elegance. Polished marble floors reflect the gentle evening light filtering through the tall, arched windows, as well as the soft glow of the chandeliers overhead. The air carries a subtle hint of lemon and beeswax, carefully applied to preserve the antique woodwork that adorns the interior. Stuart guides me across the vast space, our footsteps echoing softly beneath the high ceilings adorned with intricate plasterwork. The walls are lined with portraits of ancestors whose stern gazes seem to scrutinize even those who aren’t newcomers. As we navigate through this historical gallery, I can't help but feel the weight of generations watching over us. Stuart, sensing perhaps my heightened awareness, offers a reassuring nod as he guides me toward the petit salon—a smaller, more intimate room where the atmosphere is always slightly less formidable and where Oma awaits.

When Stuart and I reach the petit salon, the door is already slightly ajar, allowing the soft sounds of a classical melody to escape into the foyer. Pushing the door open, the familiar yet always slightly overwhelming sight of the room greets me as we enter. Rich tapestries adorn the walls, deep plush carpets cover the floor, and the gentle light filters through lace curtains.

Oma, sitting in her favorite armchair by the fireplace, looks up from her book as we enter. Her eyes, sharp and discerning even in her later years, light up with a genuine warmth that always seems reserved just for these moments.

“Hannah, my dear,” she begins, her voice smooth and comforting. I walk in her direction while Stuart leaves the room, closing the door as he goes. “How was your time in England?” Though simple, her question is laced with an understanding ofthe underlying challenges of my journey—her way of easing me into the conversation.

“It was quite the experience,” I reply, feeling the tension in my shoulders loosen under her attentive gaze. I lean down to greet her with a cheek kiss, her elegant fragrance filling my nostrils. “The horse show was fascinating, and Johan was a wonderful guide through it all.”

Oma nods, pleased yet contemplative, as if filing away every piece of information for future reference. Then, sensing the moment to delve deeper, she gestures to the seat next to her. I settle down, the weight of the music box and letter in my bag suddenly more prominent.

“As you know, Amelia wasn't at the address you gave me,” I continue, reaching into my bag, “but she left behind this music box and note for you.” I hand over the items, watching closely for her reaction.

Oma’s expression shifts as she takes the music box, her fingers tracing the delicate carvings with a touch that speaks volumes of sudden nostalgia and hidden stories. She carefully opens the letter, her eyes scanning the contents quickly before she looks back up at me, a myriad of emotions crossing her features.

“Thank you, Hannah,” she says softly, the significance of these items hanging heavily in the air between us.

“What happened to your sister?” I ask, my curiosity tinged with a hint of accusation. “Why the random quote from Shakespeare?”

Oma sighs, and I can see sorrow in her eyes. “Darling, those things belong to the past….”

Shaking my head, I refuse to give in. “Oma, please.”

She heaves a long sigh in resignation, knowing she’ll have to tell me the truth. “Fine….” She shuts her book and puts it aside on the low table in front of her. Then, she takes a fewdeep breaths as if preparing herself for a painful retelling. “My sister disappeared twenty years ago. On the evening of August 16, 2003.” The atmosphere in the room instantly shifts at the gravity of her words. “We were out in London at a play of Twelfth Night. Malvolio was on stage, reading Olivia’s letter out loud, when my sister received a text message from a man she was very much in love with, asking her to go outside as he had something important to talk to her about. Just like with the letter Malvolio was reading, it was all a trap. Against my advice, she left me and the play behind and went outside…” Oma stops herself for a moment, her gaze drifting down to her lap, and she breathes in and out in a clear attempt to keep her emotions at bay. “And she never came back.” Her gaze meets mine again, and it’s painful to watch. I’ve never seen Oma struggle to keep her composure like this. “I called every day, but she never answered.” Her eyes are misty, on the verge of tears, and while I’d love to lay a hand on hers to comfort her, I’m not sure if it’s an appropriate gesture right now. “I went to the police and hired private investigators, but she was gone without leaving a trace.”

While I knew Oma had always been formidable, now it’s clear her sternness didn’t come from nowhere. Grieving the loss of her sister must have been one of the hardest things she’d ever done.

“It was painful, and for the longest time, I thought she was gone forever. Only recently, I discovered she was still alive, but she remains as elusive as ever.”

“But why keep it from me? Does anyone else know about her? Does Mom know her aunt might still be alive?” My voice is firmer now, needing transparency.

“There’s no point in talking further about someone who I thought was dead. I’m done waiting.” Oma’s tone is firm but final, and she marks the end of the subject by taking her cup from the table and sipping her tea. “Tell me more about the horse show. Did you enjoy it?” She’s always been adept atsteering conversations away from uncomfortable territory, and while I’d love to keep talking about my great-aunt, I must respect her boundaries.

“It was great. Johan knows so much about horses, and being with him, learning from him—it was exhilarating.” I can't help the warmth that spreads through me as I speak of him despite knowing Oma’s likely disapproval.

Oma’s expression tightens just slightly. “That man might be charming, but remember, he’s quite a bit older than you. I trust you are being cautious,” she says, her tone laced with a mix of concern and warning.

“Yes, Oma.” I blush, embarrassed by her implication, and quickly change the subject. “By the way, can I ask you an unrelated favor?”

Oma looks intrigued, a spark of interest lighting her eyes. “Of course, dear.”

“Can you help me get into Cambridge? It’s always been my dream, and I’d love to graduate from their History of Art course,” I say, the request feeling small against the backdrop of our family's complicated history.

Oma’s face softens, and her eyes reflect pride. “We’ll see what can be done. You know how much I value education. But in exchange, I hope you won’t say a word about Amelia to your friend Johan or anyone else for that matter. Your mother and siblings included. This little chat stays strictly between us.”

I can see the sincerity in her gaze, and I nod firmly, clasping my hands together to steady myself as I look into her eyes. “You have my word.”

She offers a curt nod, her smile deepening with satisfaction. Her arms crossed lightly over her chest, her chin held high. “Good. Then we have a deal.”

Relief washes over me, and for a moment, the complexities of the family secrets seem to fade into the background. Yet,as I leave the salon, the melody from the music box lingers in my ears—a haunting reminder that some mysteries remain unresolved, waiting in the shadows of our past to be uncovered.

I close the door to my bedroom, the soft click echoing in the quiet house. My talk with Oma was intense as always, her revelation lingering in my mind, but the nagging questions about her sister persist. I set my bag on the chair and sit on the edge of the bed, taking a moment to breathe in the familiar scent of lavender that always lingers in this room. A mix of frustration and curiosity churns within me, making it hard to relax.

Finally, I can’t ignore my curiosity any longer, pulling open my laptop and typing “Amelia van Lynden” into the search bar. I scan the results, but nothing relevant comes up. There are no social media profiles, no news articles, not even a mention in an obscure blog. It's like she doesn't exist. Frustrated, I pick up my phone and dial Johan's number. After all, he had offered to do a little investigation involving her. To my surprise, he answers on the second ring, his voice a comforting balm.

“Hey! Did you get home safely?” he asks before I can even speak.

“Now, that was quick. Missing me already?”

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