Page 157 of Bound By Crimson
There were tiny bonnets. Booties. Ribbons tied into bows. All unmistakably meant for a baby girl.
Lyric knelt, resting her weight on her heels, and let her fingers graze the soft fabric. The clothes smelled faintly of lavender, preserved despite the years.
One pale pink pillow caught her eye—delicate and small, trimmed with lace.
A quiet gasp slipped out.
It was the same embroidery. The same fabric. The same hand-stitched music notes.
Just like the blanket she found tucked inside the cardboard box in her parents’ closet—the box that held her adoption papers. And the note.
Her name is Lyric. Please take care of her.
Her fingers trembled as she picked it up.
How?
It wasn’t store-bought. It was handmade.
So how did the matching piece end up here—locked in an attic she was never meant to find?
A cold ache bloomed in her chest. Not grief. Not fear. Something deeper.
Lyric stared at it, heart thudding, her mind chasing answers that didn’t exist—trying to make sense of the impossible.
The pillow was proof of something—she just didn’t know what.
But she couldn’t stop here. Not yet.
She rose slowly, dusting her hands off on her dress, and turned toward the rest of the room.
It wasn’t just a storage space—it had been someone’s sanctuary once. There was a vanity in the far corner. The design was familiar—carved rose vines and twisted legs. The wood matched her own bedframe exactly.
She stepped closer, ran her hand along the edge. A dust-coated silver brush and comb sat beside perfume bottles—some crystal, some porcelain. Each looked expensive. Cherished.
So why were they up here?
Lyric opened one of the vanity drawers. Inside were delicate gloves, a brooch, dried flowers pressed in a book. She reacheddeeper and found a leather-bound journal wrapped in a yellowed silk ribbon.
She untied it, hands trembling slightly.
The first page had a name written in faded ink:
Property of Eden Thornwick.
Her brow furrowed.Eden?
She flipped through the pages. Most were filled with flowing script—thoughts, sketches of birds, pressed leaves. She didn’t recognize the handwriting. But it felt… intimate.
Tucked into the back was a thin slip of paper.
A birth certificate.
Edwina Thornwick. Date of birth, weight, time—all filled out. But no father listed.
Lyric stared at the name.
Edwina.
