THE PATIENT IN ROOM 13
THE FORGOTTEN CHILDREN
Monday, November 13th – 10:00 AM
One week had passed since Tess Morrow’s first session. She had returned three times, each time digging deeper into the memories that haunted her dreams. The nightmares had lessened but not disappeared. The children were still there, waiting.
Sloane sat in her office, reviewing her notes. Tess had described the children in vivid detail—their faces, their clothes, the sounds of their weeping. She had named them, one by one, as if she had always known them.
“She is a natural,” Marian said. “The gift runs strong in her blood.”
“Like me.”
“Stronger than you. She has not been trained. She has not been disciplined. She simply… remembers.”
“What does she remember?”
“Everything. The children. The graveyard. The Watcher. She has been carrying their memories since she was a child.”
Sloane set down her pen.
She needed to know more.
Tess arrived at exactly 10:00 AM, as she always did. She was dressed casually, in jeans and a sweater, her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. Her eyes were tired but focused.
“Dr. Vance.”
“Please, call me Sloane.”
Tess sat down.
“I had another dream last night. Different from the others.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I was in the graveyard. The one behind the hospital. The children were there. They were standing around a grave. A new grave. Fresh dirt.”
“Whose grave?”
“I don’t know. The headstone was blank. No name. No dates. Nothing.”
Sloane leaned forward.
“Were you alone?”
“No. There was someone else. A woman. She was standing at the edge of the graveyard, watching. She had dark hair and dark eyes. She looked familiar.”
“Did she speak to you?”
“No. She just watched. And then she walked away.”
Sloane’s heart pounded.
“Can you describe her again?”
Tess closed her eyes.
“She was tall. Thin. Her hair was long, almost to her waist. Her eyes were… red.”
Sloane’s blood ran cold.
“Red?”
“Not like blood. Like fire. Like they were glowing.”
The voices in Sloane’s head stirred.
“The Watcher,” Marian whispered. “The child. The first one.”
“She is not in the tree anymore. She is free.”
“Free to do what?”
“Free to remember. Free to be remembered.”
Sloane stood up.
“Tess, I need you to stay here. I need to go somewhere.”
“What’s happening?”
“I need to see the graveyard.”
The cemetery was quiet when Sloane arrived.
The sun was high, the sky blue, the air cold. The headstones gleamed in the light. The leaves of the old oak trees rustled in the breeze.
Sloane walked to her father’s grave.
The headstone was clean. The flowers she had left last week were still there, wilted but present.
She looked around.
The graveyard was empty.
But she could feel something watching her.
“The child,” Marian said. “She is here.”
“Where?”
“At the edge. By the old oak.”
Sloane turned.
A figure stood beneath the tree.
A child. Small. Pale. Dark hair. Dark eyes.
The first forgotten.
The Watcher.
Sloane walked toward her.
The child did not move.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” Sloane said.
“I am everywhere,” the child answered. Her voice was soft, young, trembling. “I have always been everywhere. You are the one who is not supposed to be here.”
“You’re free now. The tree is gone. The memories are with me. You can rest.”
“I cannot rest. The others are still out there. The forgotten ones. The ones who were never buried.”
“Where are they?”
“Everywhere. In the hospitals. In the prisons. In the streets. They are waiting for someone to remember them.”
“I am the Keeper. I remember them.”
“You remember the ones in the tree. Not the ones who are still alive. Not the ones who are still suffering.”
“Then help me find them.”
The child looked at her.
Her dark eyes glistened.
“You are brave, Keeper. But bravery is not enough. You need power.”
“Then give me power.”
“I cannot give you power. You must take it.”
“How?”
“Remember. Remember everything. The children. The graveyard. The Watcher. The tree. Remember it all.”
Sloane closed her eyes.
She remembered.
She saw the children in the graveyard. Dozens of them. Hundreds. They were standing in rows, their faces pale, their eyes closed. They were not dead. They were waiting.
She saw the woman with the red eyes. The first child, grown, her dark hair flowing, her face serene. She was walking through the graveyard, touching each child’s forehead, whispering something.
She saw the tree. The roots spreading, reaching, pulling the children into the earth. The children did not fight. They welcomed it.
She saw her father. Standing at the edge of the graveyard, watching. His face was sad. His eyes were wet.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save them.”
“You tried.”
“Trying is not enough.”
“It is all we have.”
She opened her eyes.
The child was gone.
The graveyard was empty.
But Sloane was not alone.