1995, Los Angeles, California

Valerie Fontaine browses through the pages of her recent draft. According to her publisher, this draft requires a more vivid conflict between the protagonists and higher tension to keep readers on their toes. Despite her experience in authoring historical fiction, this draft failed to meet the benchmark her other books have set. No matter how many techniques she applied whether by modifying her wording or transitioning between the leads' points of view, it didn't work.

"Mom!" Louis, her son cries from behind, now approaching his 50s. "You said you wanted to rearrange the storeroom! You wanna come or shall I start?"

Valerie sighs. Louis always picks up the quickest gear in action—an American quirk. She trudges to the stuffy storeroom, dusty and abandoned for ages. This room conceals something Valerie has struggled all her life to bury. At first, she used to constantly fear its exposure but eventually erased this strain from her mind until today. Declining her insistence on doing the cleaning alone, Louis will keep his eyes glued on her, and her secret may make its path to him. NO! That trunk should remain in the shadows.

Louis hands her a pair of gloves and a mask, then, dig their hands into work. Valerie reorganizes old books, sagged bags and other obsolete items while Louis sweeps the floor. The spider webs slinging over the pillars, and the greyish layer of dust resting on the crates, trunks and boxes imply how much time has passed in her life. These were her daily commodities once till getting lost with the course of time.

Thankfully, Louis doesn't notice the oldest trunk tucked beneath the pile of other boxes. "We did a great job, Lou." Valerie puts the short name Louis scowls at, saying it is too childish for him now. "That's why, I tell you not to do things alone! Your asthma has already dried your lungs." He frowns. He always thinks of her as incomplete and acutely vulnerable. Not his fault though. She always portrays herself as calm and mute, unlike the stereotypical independent woman—fearless and unbarred. Flaunting vigour doesn't equal being strong. But, she doesn't imbue the realization in him as long as life goes normal. 

She steps out of the room when Louis calls, "Mom! You forgot this trunk over there." Valerie swings back to detect him hauling it out. Her breath catches in her throat. She tries to work on her tongue to stop him but too late. The articles within are disclosed. He lifts them aside one by one. "Louis, no!" Valerie trips on a box and knocks off the trunk. Louis stables her but the contents of the trunk scatter on the floor—a malfunctioning typewriter, postcards addressed to some holding in Paris, dusty sticks of red wax and a seal, a silver ring with floral patterns, a blue shawl and a crumpled photo.

The photo flies its way to Louis' ankle. He grabs it and scans the person behind the wrinkles and smudges veined all over. The frail photo quivered in his grasp, just like Valerie. She slouches on the floor, her heart curling into a tiny ball of dismay. She can sense her nerves coiling and writhing inside her stomach. Ice flushed down her bones until her every inch freezes numb. 

"Who's this, mom? Who's this man?" Louis sits beside. Her trembling hands grab the photo, now flitting for the gale slamming through them. Beyond the mark of decades and discolouration, his face still shines bright. Those rich grey eyes still stare back into her soul. 

"Herman Hedt." A smooth whisper, a fated confession she had burdened in her heart. Droplets moisten her eyeducts until her sight goes vague for the name not pronounced for the last 50 years. 

[Word Count: 646] 

A/N: Share your thoughts on this draft down below! It really helps this amateur author!!

~Luna