“Claire, I think Ellie is the daughter you believed you had lost.”

Nora’s words left me frozen. Ellie was her adopted daughter, a sweet five-year-old I loved dearly. But five years earlier, doctors had told me that my baby had died during childbirth.

Nora placed two reports on the table.

“I had genetic tests done. I know I should have told you first, but the results say you’re Ellie’s biological mother.”

I stared at the papers, struggling to make sense of them.

I could still remember that night at the hospital: my baby’s first cry, Daniel holding my hand, and a nurse carrying our daughter away for a few examinations. The next morning, a doctor told me she hadn’t survived.

For five years, I had lived with that grief.

“There’s more,” Nora said quietly.

She showed me Ellie’s adoption records. The date of birth matched my daughter’s, and the hospital listed on the forms was the same one. Most disturbing of all, one document claimed that I had willingly agreed to the adoption.

“I never signed anything like that!”

“That’s exactly what we need to find out.”

Nora then pulled out an old photograph. It showed Daniel outside the hospital beside a nurse holding a newborn. A note on the back mentioned a payment.

Why had my husband never told me about it?

That afternoon, we went to Saint Matthew’s Hospital. Mrs. Hale, who managed the archives, looked troubled when she saw the photograph.

“That nurse used to work here. Some records from that period were reviewed by the administration.”

She searched through an old register. Beside my name was an unexpected note: my daughter had overcome her initial breathing difficulties, and her condition had stabilized.

“That doesn’t explain what happened afterward,” Mrs. Hale said. “But it does mean these records need a closer review.”

Tears filled my eyes.

The doctor who had told me my baby was dead was named Samuel Voss. He had retired years ago, but we managed to arrange a meeting.

When he saw my name, his expression shifted.

“Doctor, did my daughter really die?”

He was silent for a moment.

“Some of the information given to your family didn’t match the initial medical observations.”

“Who changed it?”

He looked away.

“Several people were involved in the decisions made that night. Your husband had started asking questions, too.”

A wave of dizziness swept over me.

“Did Daniel know the truth?”

“He was trying to uncover it.”

Before we left, the doctor told us how to access old records stored in a secure facility at Central Station. But when an unfamiliar car pulled up outside his house, he suddenly grew anxious.

“You need to leave now. We’ll talk about the rest later.”

In the car, Daniel called me.

“Claire, has Nora told you about the hospital?”

“Why are you asking?”

“Because I’m afraid you’ve only uncovered part of what happened.”

I hung up, unable to answer.

At Central Station, an employee handed us a box containing documents our lawyer had been authorized to review. Inside were photographs, birth records, and information about thirty-two little girls. Several papers referred to a private foundation called the Ashcroft Institute, which specialized in heredity research.

Then I found a photograph of my mother and grandmother. A note on the back referred to the monitoring of three generations of the same family.

“Why is our family mentioned in these files?” Nora asked.

Before I could respond, an elderly man approached us.

“Claire, I need to talk to you about Ellie.”

His face seemed strangely familiar. He looked like Raymond, my mother’s brother, who had supposedly died many years ago.

“Uncle Raymond?”

The man nodded.

“Your husband didn’t arrange Ellie’s disappearance. He tried to find her.”

I stepped back, stunned.

“Then why did he hide all this from me?”

“He was afraid that revealing the truth too soon would put his search at risk.”

Then he asked me an unexpected question.

“Has Ellie ever told you about a little girl who looks exactly like her?”

I remembered a recent evening when Ellie had woken from a strange dream. She described a white room, a large window, and a child with the exact same face as hers.

“How do you know about that dream?”

The man hesitated.

“The records suggest Ellie had a twin sister.”

My heart began to race.

“A twin?”

“She may have been placed in an institution connected to Ashcroft.”

Just then, my phone rang. It was Daniel.

“Claire, where are you?”

“At the station with Nora and… Raymond.”

A tense silence followed.

“Claire, get away from that man. Your Uncle Raymond really is dead.”

I stared at the stranger.

“Then who is he?”

“His name is Adrian Vale. He worked for the Ashcroft Institute.”

The man didn’t deny it.

“I only wanted her to learn the truth,” he said.

“By pretending to be my relative?” I snapped.

Daniel spoke again.

“Claire, I found more documents. There’s something even more important.”

“What?”

His voice trembled.

“The records don’t mention only two babies. They say three identical little girls were born that night.”

I leaned against the wall.

“Three?”

“Ellie was one of them. Another may have been transferred to an institution linked to Ashcroft. The third appears in a separate hospital file.”

I looked at Nora, unable to speak.

Suddenly, footsteps echoed on the stairs.

“Aunt Claire?” a little girl called.

I turned around. A child with curly hair was slowly coming down the steps. She had Ellie’s eyes, her smile, and the same dimples.

She stopped in front of me.

“Mom?” she asked timidly.

Then Daniel appeared behind her, holding another little girl by the hand.

She was identical to the first.

In that moment, I realized the mystery surrounding my daughter’s birth was only just beginning.

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