PART 4 — THE MAN WHO HAD BEEN SEARCHING FOR HIS MOTHER
No one moved.
The three knocks echoed through the room.
Knock… knock… knock…
Anna's face had gone completely white.
Maria stood beside her.
I felt my heart beating painfully against my ribs.
— Open the door, — I whispered.
Maria reached for the handle.
She slowly turned it.
The door opened.
A man stood outside.
He was tall.
His hair was gray.
His face carried the marks of a lifetime.
But his eyes…
His eyes looked exactly like Anna's.
He stared at her.
Anna stared back.
For several seconds, neither of them spoke.
Then the man whispered:
— Anna?
Anna covered her mouth.
Her knees nearly gave way.
Maria caught her.
— Mom!
The man took one step forward.
— Is it really you?
Anna began crying.
— David.
The man's face crumpled.
He looked at me.
Then back at Anna.
— My whole life…
His voice broke.
— My whole life I wondered what my mother's name was.
Anna reached toward him.
David walked into the room.
Then he stopped.
As if he didn't know whether he was allowed to touch her.
Anna whispered:
— Come here, my son.
David broke down.
He fell into her arms.
I watched them embrace.
A mother.
A son.
Forty-nine years apart.
There are moments when words become too small.
This was one of them.
Maria was crying.
I was crying.
Even the nurse standing in the hallway turned away to wipe her eyes.
David eventually sat beside the bed.
He looked at me.
— Are you Elisabeth?
I nodded.
— Yes.
He smiled through tears.
— My mother told me about you.
I looked at Anna.
— She remembered the yellow room.
David nodded.
— She told me that a woman opened her door when everyone else had closed theirs.
I shook my head.
— I only did what anyone should have done.
David smiled.
— My mother says that's not true.
He took something from his pocket.
A small wooden box.
He placed it on the table.
— She gave this to me.
I looked at Anna.
— What's inside?
David opened it.
Inside was a tiny white baby sock.
Old.
Faded.
Worn.
My breath caught.
I recognized it.
— I bought those.
Anna nodded.
— For my baby.
David picked it up.
— My mother kept it for forty-nine years.
I touched the sock.
Suddenly I was back in 1976.
The yellow walls.
The tiny crib.
The baby clothes.
Anna smiling with her hand on her stomach.
I began to cry.
— Why did she keep it?
David looked at his mother.
Anna answered:
— Because it was the only thing I had left from the time when I believed my son would have a normal life.
Silence filled the room.
Then David asked:
— What happened to the man who took me?
Anna looked away.
— My father.
David nodded.
— I know.
I stared at him.
— You know?
— I found his records.
David explained that three months earlier, he had received information about his adoption.
His entire identity had been built on a lie.
His adoptive parents had believed he was an abandoned child.
They had never known his real mother.
But after they died, David found a hidden envelope.
Inside was a name.
Anna Keller.
He began searching.
That search led him to old hospital records.
Then to Maria.
Then to me.
— Why did you come here? — I asked.
David looked at me.
— Because I wanted to find the woman who saved my mother.
I smiled.
— You found me too late.
He shook his head.
— No.
His voice was firm.
— I found you just in time.
Those words stayed with me.
Just in time.
For the first time in weeks, I didn't feel afraid of dying.
I had spent forty-nine years believing my life had ended the morning Anna disappeared.
But maybe it had only been paused.
Maybe the yellow room had been waiting for this moment.
Then David reached into his coat.
He took out a second envelope.
— There's something else.
I looked at him.
— What?
He placed it in my hands.
My name was written across the front.
In handwriting I didn't recognize.
— Where did you get this?
David answered:
— From my grandfather.
Richard Keller.
I opened it.
Inside was a single photograph.
It showed my house.
The yellow room.
And someone standing outside the window.
I stared at the photograph.
Then I noticed the date written on the back.
April 1976.
My hands began shaking.
Someone had been watching my house.
Not just after Anna left.
Before.
And suddenly I realized something terrifying.
Anna had not chosen my house by accident.
Someone had sent her there.
