Your spouse is still living. The words rendered Roland Ellington motionless. He abruptly pivoted from the gravestone he had been gazing at—the stone inscribed with the name of his deceased wife, Elena Rose Ellington.
Five years had elapsed since the catastrophic catastrophe purported to have claimed her life, yet sorrow still adhered to him like a second skin. Each month, he visited, placed lilies at her grave, and remained silent. He remained silent. He was unable to. A little voice had disrupted that stillness. A girl, Black and around eight years old, sat two rows over on the grass, her hair styled in two puffs and her hoodie buttoned to her chin. Her trainers were soiled, and her backpack was worn. She embraced it as though it could be snatched away at any instant. Roland blinked his eyes. “Pardon me?” The girl gazed directly at him. “Do not abandon those flowers.” She is absent. Your spouse is still living. For an instant, Roland believed it must be a malicious jest. However, the girl’s gaze remained steadfast. She said it as though it were an indisputable fact. “What is your name?” he enquired tentatively. Zariah. Zariah Bennett. “How could you possibly possess any knowledge regarding my wife?” “Occasionally, she assists me,” Zariah responded quietly. She once provided me with soup. A blanket adorned with stars. She instructed me to refrain from disclosing information about her, yet…” She nonchalantly shrugged her shoulders. “I believe she would desire you to be informed.” You appear despondent. Roland had constriction in his chest. His spouse had cherished blankets adorned with star patterns. He squatted, heart racing. “What did she state her name to be?” “I did not,” the girl responded. “However, it is Elena.” She instructed me to remember. Zariah commenced humming, discordantly yet recognisable. Roland became immobile. It was their song, the one Elena sang during storms, a melody known solely to her from her grandma. No other living individual could possibly possess this knowledge. His throat became parched. “Where did you encounter her?” “Adjacent to the antiquated bus terminal near Lone Pine.” However, not recently… perhaps four days prior. She provided me with crackers and instructed me to remain in place. Roland recoiled, astonished. After years, grief was shattered, allowing fragile hope to surge forth. Prior to departing the cemetery, he invoked a name from his history: Juno Alvarez, a private investigator in whom he placed his utmost trust. “I believe Elena is alive,” he stated. He was sincere. The same day, Juno appeared at Roland’s estate bearing a collection of antiquated case files. “If we are proceeding, we commence with the crash report,” she stated. They examined each page thoroughly. 
The official account has consistently been insubstantial: a vehicular conflagration, too severe to retrieve a corpse, deemed lethal without dental verification. At that moment, Roland was too shattered to enquire about it. At present, every detail exhibited inconsistency. “There exists a thirty-eight-minute interval between the initial highway camera capturing flames and the fire department’s arrival,” Juno remarked. “That does not constitute negligence.” That constitutes a cover-up. Roland tightened his fists. “Subsequently, an individual sought to persuade me that she was no longer present.” They returned to the accident location. Five years later, the guardrail remained distorted. Charred terrain persisted in visibility. Juno meticulously searched the dirt until she discovered a partially buried length of blue fabric adorned with faded stars. Roland’s breath was momentarily halted. The blanket belonging to Zariah. Elena’s coverlet. His hands trembled when he grasped it. The path directed them to a nurse, Carla Denton, whose name was recorded in historical clinic logs. Upon locating her in Prescott Valley, the woman’s complexion paled at the mention of Elena’s name. Plus-size apparel Within her unassuming residence, Carla ultimately confessed the truth. She endured. Burns and fractured ribs—yet still alive. She implored me to maintain her confidentiality. It was stated that someone desired her demise. Roland’s heart pounded in his chest. “What is her current location?” Carla paused momentarily before opening a drawer. She glided over a wrinkled photograph: a young child with large eyes and curly hair, seated on a blanket of stars. A hooded woman with a subtle, unmistakable smile sat next her. Plus-size apparel “That is Naomi,” Carla stated softly. Your offspring. Elena conveyed that if you ever visited, I should inform you that she has never ceased to love you. and that you possess a child. Roland’s sight was obscured by tears. Elena had been living—and nurturing their child—while he lamented a tomb devoid of a corpse. He now sought more than mere answers. He desired the return of his family. Following Carla’s instructions, Roland and Juno travelled to Jerome, a mountainous village where Elena was last observed. 
Concealed between lifeless pines, an antiquated yellow school bus had been repurposed into an improvised dwelling. Window coverings obscured the view. Roland experienced a painful sensation in his chest as he drew near. Juno was the initial one to knock. For an extended duration, silence prevailed. Subsequently, the door emitted a creaking sound as it opened. Elena remained stationary. Emaciated, marked by scars, one hand gloved—yet undeniably her. Her eyes expanded, brimming with tears. “You have located me,” she said. Roland struggled to breathe. “You are alive.” Within the bus, the atmosphere was permeated by the scents of soup and washing detergent. A small mattress rested on the floor. A tiny girl was seated on a blanket of stars, engaging with a pet bear. She gazed upward with wide, inquisitive eyes. “Elena,” Roland gasped, “is that—?” “Our daughter,” she uttered gently. “Naomi.” The girl smiled timidly. “Greetings.” Roland knelt, inundated with emotion. He had overlooked her entire existence. Elena articulated in fragmented phrases how the collision had been contrived, detailing how Alec Rener, Roland’s reliable legal counsel, had organised it to prevent Roland from revealing corrupt monitoring contracts. Alec anticipated that Roland would succumb to despair. He had not anticipated Elena’s survival. “I vanished to safeguard you,” Elena said, tears cascading down her cheeks. “However, I could not prevent Naomi from being with you indefinitely.” Roland embraced her tightly, imperfections and all. Cease all evasion. “No further concealment.” 
A few days later, Alec Rener was apprehended, incriminated by Juno’s evidence. After years, Roland’s residence in Flagstaff resonated with laughter. Elena and Naomi engaged in play within the garden. Zariah, the young girl who had articulated the truth, currently resided with them, referring to herself as Naomi’s “big sister.” Observing them through the glass, Roland murmured to Juno: 
“Are you aware of what caused the greatest pain?” It was not the sorrow nor the deceit—it was the stillness. Until a singular voice revealed the truth: Your wife still alive. That reality had led his family back home.
Your Wife Is Still Alive”the Black Girl Said —The Billionaire Immediately Launches an Investigation
