Chapter 1

My daughter was a world-famous young violin prodigy.

That was until I visited an orphanage deep in the mountains. There, I saw a disabled girl, her face and body disfigured by fire, lying in the mud.

She was tapping out a broken, off-beat Lullaby with two sticks.

It was the very first piece I taught my daughter, the misplaced pause was our secret signal, a game only the two of us knew.

The check in my hand was crumpled from my grip.

'If she was my own flesh and blood, then who exactly is Sophie Carter, that so-called genius daughter of mine rehearsing at Royal Concert Hall?' I wondered.

*****

"Ms. Bennett, just look at these poor kids," the director said, rubbing his hands together with an ingratiating smile.

The director kept rubbing his hands, flashing me an ingratiating grin.

I clenched the donation check, my nails biting into the paper.

I couldn't take my eyes off the girl sprawled in the mud.

She was filthy, curled up in the corner like a discarded rag shoved against the wall.

Half her face was covered in gruesome burn scars, and one leg was haphazardly splinted with a plank, her knee twisted the wrong way.

She seemed to notice my gaze, stopped tapping, and ducked her head even deeper, as if she wished she could disappear.

"What's her name?" I asked.

My throat felt dry and scratchy.

"Oh, she doesn't have a name. We just call her the little mute," the director said, waving his hand dismissively.

The director waved his hand dismissively.

"We found her after that fire down the mountain three years ago. Her face and leg got burned, her voice is gone, and she's not all there. We just give her some food and that's it."

Three years ago.

The fire.

My daughter, Sophie, also had a serious car accident three years ago.

After that accident, she went from a kid who used to ditch lessons and cry all the time to a musical genius who could memorize any piece after hearing it just once.

That pause she could never get right before? After that, she nailed it every time.

And that secret we shared about the lullaby? It felt like it had vanished without a trace, as if someone had erased it from our lives.

Back then, I was so relieved and thankful, thinking fate had returned my child to me.

But now, all I felt was a chill in my gut.

I hurried over and crouched down in front of the girl.

She shrank back in fear, the sticks slipping from her hands and falling into the muddy water.

I reached out, meaning to gently touch her face.

She curled up into a ball, letting out a broken, pitiful whimper, like a wounded bird with broken wings.

My hand froze in midair.

"Don't be afraid. I won't touch you," Ms. Bennett said gently.

I took a piece of candy from my bag, unwrapped it, and held it out to her.

She looked up hesitantly, the one eye she had left full of fear and uncertainty.

She didn't take it.

I crouched there, suddenly at a loss for what expression to show her.

'No, that's impossible,' Ms. Bennett told herself.

At this very moment, my daughter Sophie was rehearsing at the Royal Concert Hall in Berlin for her solo performance three days from now.

She was the star in the spotlight, the greatest pride of my life.

But the girl in front of me was just a pitiful, abandoned child.

'I must be losing my mind,' Ms. Bennett thought.

I stood up, stepped into a muddy puddle, and splashed dirty water all over myself.

"Ms. Bennett, the check," the director called out, hurrying after me.

The director hurried after me.

"My assistant will handle the rest," I said, without even looking back.

I practically bolted out of the orphanage and got into the car.

The driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror.

"Ms. Bennett, you don't look so good," he said.

"Just drive," I said.

As the car left the mountain road, a news alert popped up on my phone.

"Genius violin prodigy Sophie Carter arrives in Berlin; Royal Concert Hall adds an extra show just for her."

In the photo, my daughter was wearing a white dress, cradling an antique violin, smiling just right under the spotlight.

Her father, my husband Andrew, stood beside her, his palm gently shielding her shoulder.

What a perfect family.

I fixated on that photo, and ended up retching miserably in the car, making a mess of myself.

I didn't sleep a wink that night. The next day, I told Andrew I wanted to go back and see that girl at the orphanage.

"It's just some orphanage out in the sticks. Why are you so hung up on it?" Andrew said, his tone flat.

On the video call, he was sitting in the front row of the concert hall, his voice cool and detached.

"I just feel sorry for that kid," I said.

"You're wasting your sympathy, Emily," Andrew said, his voice cold.

He looked at me through the screen, and in the background, I could hear Sophie tuning her violin.

"Sophie's solo is way more important. It's in three days. Don't make things difficult," Andrew said.

"Andrew, do you remember what Sophie said when she woke up after the car accident three years ago?" Emily asked.

He paused.

"She said it hurt," Andrew replied.

"No, she looked at me and asked, 'Who are you?'" Emily corrected him.

"She hit her head. The doctor said she'd be confused for a while," Andrew replied.

"But why did she suddenly stop crying the way she used to, right after that accident?" Emily pushed, her voice trembling.

Andrew's face darkened.

"Emily, you're exhausted. Stop overthinking things," he said.

The video call ended abruptly.

I set my phone down and asked the driver to turn the car around.

This time, I wore a hat and mask, switched to a plain jacket, and even scrubbed off my usual perfume.

The director was caught off guard seeing me again, but when he noticed the gift bags in my assistant's hands, his face crinkled into a broad, wrinkled grin.

"Ms. Bennett, you're such a kind-hearted person," he said.

I walked right past him, heading straight for the backyard without even glancing his way.

The girl was still there, huddled against the wall, tracing lines in the mud with a stick.

I crouched down slowly.

She looked up, wary and tense, instinctively shrinking back toward the corner.

I didn't say a word. Instead, I took out an old music box and wound it up.

The lullaby began to play, its gentle notes filling the air.

The girl's hand froze in the mud.

She stared at the music box, then at me, as if she was trying to make sure I wasn't just a figment of her imagination, someone who might vanish like a dream at any moment.

I opened my palm.

There was an old callus at the base of my thumb.

Years ago, I'd stay up late with Sophie, helping her press the strings until my hand was rubbed raw. The violin strings would cut into my skin, and after the wounds scabbed over, they left behind this rough, uneven callus.

Once Sophie turned into a prodigy, she didn't need me to practice with her anymore.

But the callus never went away.

The girl hesitated, then reached out her small, muddy hand. Her fingertips gently tapped the callus at the base of my thumb.

Once. Then again. Like a baby animal searching for something familiar.

Her hand moved from my palm up to my wrist, stopping at a thin, faded scar.

I got that scar while I was pregnant with her, slicing fruit and accidentally cutting myself. When she was little, she'd always curl up in my arms, tracing that scar and calling it Mommy's little crescent moon.

The girl suddenly looked up.

She opened her mouth, but only a raspy, broken sound came out.

"Mom."

There was no sound.

But I could read her lips.

I sank down into the mud, pulling her into my arms.

"Lily."

That was the little name I used to call my daughter.

I wanted her to know warmth and cold, to know love, and to always find her way home.

She shook so hard in my arms, and after three years of holding it in, her cries finally tore out of her damaged throat, rough and jagged, like rocks scraping against bone.

I hugged her tightly, pressing my face into her messy, dirty hair.

"Lily, Mommy's here," I whispered.

She clung to my clothes, burying her face in my chest, her lips silently mouthing "Mom" again and again.

Mom.

Mom.

The director was frozen in shock.

"Ms. Bennett, she's covered in mud. You might want to watch your clothes," he said.

I looked up at him.

"I want to see all the records from when she was admitted three years ago," I said.

The director's smile faltered.