PART 5 — THE TRUTH ABOUT THAT SNOWY NIGHT
I couldn't stop staring at the photograph.
My house.
My yellow room.
The date.
April 1976.
Someone had been watching.
— Who took this? — I asked.
David shook his head.
— We don't know.
Anna looked terrified.
— My father never showed me that photograph.
I turned it over again.
There was another sentence written beneath the date.
She was the only one I trusted.
I looked at Anna.
— What does this mean?
She shook her head.
— I don't know.
Maria took the photograph.
She studied it carefully.
Then she suddenly said:
— Wait.
She pointed toward the window.
— There's someone standing there.
I looked.
A dark figure.
Almost impossible to see.
But there was something familiar about the coat.
I remembered that coat.
Not from 1976.
From much later.
From my husband's funeral.
I felt a strange sensation in my chest.
— I know that coat.
Anna looked at me.
— Whose was it?
I closed my eyes.
— My husband's brother.
Everyone became silent.
My husband's brother had died decades ago.
But I remembered something strange.
He had always disliked Anna.
Even though he barely knew her.
He had once asked me:
“Why are you letting that girl stay here?”
I had told him it was none of his business.
He never asked again.
Or so I thought.
David stood.
— We need to find out what happened.
I nodded.
But before anyone could leave, an elderly doctor entered the room.
He looked at David.
Then Anna.
Then me.
His face changed.
— So you found each other.
I stared at him.
— You knew?
He sighed.
— I knew part of the story.
Anna stood.
— Who are you?
The doctor introduced himself as Dr. Thomas Miller.
Then he revealed something I never expected.
He had been a young medical intern at the hospital in 1976.
He had been there when Anna gave birth.
— I remember her, — he said.
Anna stared at him.
— You knew?
— I knew someone was trying to take your baby.
Anna's eyes widened.
— Why didn't you help me?
The doctor looked devastated.
— Because I was twenty-four years old and terrified.
He admitted that Richard Keller had threatened several hospital employees.
He had manipulated records.
He had even arranged for Anna's baby to be listed under another name.
— But you said the baby died.
Anna whispered.
The doctor shook his head.
— I lied.
Anna gasped.
— Why?
— Because I was trying to protect him.
David stepped forward.
— Protect me from what?
The doctor took a deep breath.
— Your grandfather had arranged for you to be adopted.
— By whom?
The doctor looked at me.
— A family that lived two towns away.
David froze.
— My adoptive family?
— Yes.
— Did they know?
— No.
David sat down.
The doctor continued.
— They were good people. They genuinely believed you had been abandoned.
I felt tears in my eyes.
— So Richard didn't raise him?
— No.
— Then why did he take him?
The doctor hesitated.
— Because he wanted control over Anna.
Anna whispered:
— My father wanted me to marry another man.
The doctor nodded.
— A wealthy businessman.
Anna closed her eyes.
— I refused.
The doctor looked at David.
— Your grandfather believed that if he took your son, he could force your mother to obey him.
David's jaw tightened.
— He failed.
— Yes.
Anna looked at me.
— But I still lost my son.
I reached for her hand.
— You found him.
She squeezed my fingers.
Then the doctor said something that changed everything.
— There's one more thing.
Everyone looked at him.
— Richard Keller didn't choose Elisabeth randomly.
I stared at him.
— What do you mean?
He pulled an old folder from his bag.
— Before that night, Richard had already met your husband.
I froze.
— My husband?
He nodded.
— They knew each other.
My entire body went cold.
My husband had never told me.
The doctor continued.
— Your husband was the one who convinced Richard that you would help Anna.
I couldn't breathe.
— Why?
The doctor looked at Anna.
— Because your husband knew what kind of woman you were.
I began to cry.
My husband had been dead for years.
But suddenly he was standing in the middle of the story.
He had known.
He had known Anna was coming.
He had known about the baby.
And perhaps…
He had known why she was in danger.
I whispered:
— Why didn't he tell me?
The doctor handed me another envelope.
— He tried.
I looked at it.
My husband's handwriting was on the front.
My name.
Elisabeth.
My hands shook.
I opened the letter.
The first sentence made my heart stop.
My beloved Elisabeth, If you are reading this, then Anna has finally found you.
I couldn't continue.
Because underneath those words was a date.
January 1976.
Months before Anna ever knocked on my door.
My husband had written the letter before the snowy night.
Before Anna arrived.
Before the baby was born.
He had known something was coming.
And suddenly I understood.
The night Anna came to my door hadn't been a coincidence.
It had been planned.
But not by Richard.
By my husband.
And he had left me one final secret.
A secret that could explain everything.
