Chapter Text
Pleasantview is a quiet little suburb on the outskirts of SimCity, where identical houses sit in careful rows. With all its greenery and perfect houses, it is truly a gem to behold. My husband and I fell in love there. We got married there. We raised our children there, under warm kitchen lights and the soft hum of routines that never seemed to break.
Every morning in Pleasantview begins the same way: sprinklers ticking in perfect rhythm across the manicured lawns, coffee brewing in spotless kitchens, and neighbours smiling a little too easily, pretending they have nothing to hide.
I used to be one of them. But now I watch from somewhere far above, where secrets echo louder than footsteps. And as I look down at the people I once loved, I can’t help but wonder— which of them is pretending the hardest?
215 Sim Lane is a beautiful house, almost staged, as though no one truly lives there. Its Tudor architecture stands immaculate against the street, and its large windows reflect the light in a way that reveals everything and nothing at once, offering careful glimpses into the home for anyone who cares to look.
The large front yard is filled with flower beds bursting with carefully arranged colour, the faint scent of soil and fertiliser lingering in the air, lovingly maintained by the gardener twice a week. In the driveway, a polished black sedan and a bright red sports car sit side by side; practicality neatly paired with indulgence. The fence surrounding the property sags slightly in places, the paint beginning to peel—small signs of neglect that stand out sharply against everything else’s perfection.
Out of the large glass front door, a woman with dark hair pulled back into a bun steps out, her heels striking the wood in quick, precise beats. Her mobile phone is cradled between her ear and shoulder, her voice clipped and efficient as she balances the call, holding the door open with one hand and her briefcase in the other.
She wears a red power suit today, ready for another busy day at town hall. She gestures back into the house with her briefcase before smoothing out creases in her blazer that were never there, more out of habit than necessity.
There was a time when I envied Mary-Sue Pleasant. Her ambition. Her certainty.
She believed that hard work could shield her from any of life’s problems.
But as I watch her now, trying not to be late to work, I see what she cannot: the quiet, hollow loneliness her ambition has carved out around her.
A tall red‑headed man leans into the doorway, one shoulder resting lightly against the wooden frame as he screws the lid onto a metallic travel coffee mug. He watches her for a second longer than necessary before holding the door open as Mary‑Sue moves to take the cup with her now free hand.
She pauses just long enough to kiss her husband—a quick, distracted gesture, their movements practised and automatic, her attention already elsewhere—before rushing down the front steps toward the black sedan.
The man lingers in the doorway for a moment after she’s gone, the quiet settling around him, before closing it and turning back into the house.
He pours himself a cup of coffee into a white mug before holding it and staring out of the large kitchen window. The green kitchen counters gleam under the bright morning light, every surface wiped spotless, every object aligned as if it has been measured. Mary‑Sue insists on it; order isn’t a preference in the Pleasant house, it is a necessity. The room is so still that even the faint clink of ceramic against ceramic carries further than it should.
He takes a slow sip of the black coffee as a white van with a pink logo rolls up outside, tyres crunching softly against the curb before settling into place. It doesn’t rush; it arrives with quiet certainty. Mary‑Sue’s husband smiles to himself; subtle, private, and just a little too satisfied.
Daniel Pleasant had once been the pride of SimCity; a man cheered by thousands, adored by millions, and convinced the applause would never fade.
But retirement has a way of quieting even the loudest stadiums. Now, as he paces the sidelines with a whistle instead of a helmet, Daniel clung to the one thing he still believed he could win—
A woman with black hair and a maid’s uniform climbs out of the driver’s seat of the van.
—the admiration of women who weren’t his wife.
Upstairs, in a bedroom washed in soft shades of pink and filled with carefully chosen, delicate furnishings, one of Daniel and Mary‑Sue’s daughters sits before her vanity. Pop music drifts gently through the room, low enough to be unobtrusive but constant, filling the quiet in a way that feels intentional.
The morning sun slips through the curtains in thin, golden strips, catching in strands of her red hair as she slowly straightens it. Each movement is precise, practised, mirroring the quiet perfection expected of everything in the house.
She smiles faintly at her reflection, satisfied with the result.
On the surface beside her, a Polaroid photograph rests within easy reach. She picks it up, turning it slightly so the light catches it just right. In it, she stands beside a blonde boy in front of Pleasantview’s winter ice rink, both of them bundled against the cold, frozen mid‑laugh in a way that feels effortless and real, nothing like the quiet stillness of the room around her.
Her smile softens as she looks at it.
Setting the straighteners aside, she presses her fingers lightly to her lips, hesitating for just a moment before touching them gently to the boy’s image. The gesture is small, instinctive, something she wouldn’t allow herself if anyone else were watching.
She places the photo back down with care.
At her wardrobe, she pauses only briefly before selecting a green summer dress, the fabric light beneath her fingers as she slips it from the hanger. The choice feels deliberate—casual, but not careless.
Standing before the full‑length mirror, she smooths the dress into place, adjusting it in small, precise movements until everything sits exactly as it should.
She smiles again, this time more rehearsed than natural. It fits. It always does.
Angela Pleasant had always been the daughter her parents bragged about; she was polite, popular, and armed with a report card full of A’s.
She smiled when she was expected to, excelled when she was supposed to, and never gave anyone a reason to doubt her perfection.
But perfection is a costume, and Angela wore hers well, especially when sneaking off to see the boy her parents would never approve of.
Angela turns away from the mirror and reaches for her rucksack, packing it methodically, books stacked neatly, everything in its place, nothing left unfinished. Another day prepared exactly as expected.
In the bedroom on the opposite side of the house, the quiet perfection of 215 Sim Lane fractures completely.
Metal music blasts at full volume, the heavy bass reverberating through the walls and echoing off the cold stone surfaces, drowning out any trace of the careful stillness that defines the rest of the home.
Daniel and Mary‑Sue’s other daughter moves through the noise as if she needs it, as if the sound itself is a lifeline she can hold onto. Her head bobs in sharp, rhythmic movements as she mutters the lyrics under her breath, the words half‑formed, swallowed by the music before they can fully exist.
She stops in front of the mirror, leaning in slightly as she drags a comb through her hair, backcombing it with quick, practised motions. Strands pull loose and wild, refusing to settle into anything neat.
A thick line of eyeliner follows—dark, deliberate—her hand steady as she shapes it into something sharper.
The black lipstick comes last, pressed on without hesitation, leaving no room for softness.
She reaches for a spiked choker, fastening it around her neck with a quick click before catching sight of herself again.
This time, she doesn’t smile.
The music surges—louder, heavier—and she lets it take over. She throws her head forward, hair whipping as she falls into the beat, the motion sudden and unrestrained. For a few seconds, everything else disappears into the rhythm, the house, the silence, the expectations on the other side of the walls.
When the moment passes, she crosses the room without slowing, pulling a creased black dress from a drawer. The fabric is worn but familiar, slipping into place without effort as she moves, dressing between movements, never fully leaving the pulse of the music behind.
She sings the chorus now—louder, rougher—her voice slightly off but full of something real in a way the rest of the house never is.
Near the edge of the dresser, a Polaroid photo sits half‑tucked beneath a book. She snatches it up without breaking rhythm. In it, she stands beside a boy outside Woodland Park, the background blurred but the closeness between them unmistakable.
She pauses, just for a second.
Then presses a quick, almost defiant kiss to the photo before tossing it back onto the surface with more force than necessary.
The moment lingers in the air for a fraction too long.
Lilith Pleasant had never been the daughter her parents wanted — she was too loud, too angry and too unwilling to smile on command.
While her twin sister shone beneath the Pleasant family spotlight, Lilith lived in the shadows, wrapped in black eyeliner and grades her mother pretended not to see.
But rebellion is rarely as simple as it looks. And the girl who seemed determined to disappoint everyone was secretly falling for a boy who would have made her parents proud—if only they’d bothered to notice.
Without another glance, she reaches for her bag and slings it over her shoulder.
At the door, she stops only long enough to turn back and cut the stereo. The silence that follows is immediate, heavy and unwelcome.
She doesn’t stay in it. The door slams closed behind her a moment later, the echo briefly filling the space she’s left behind.
225 Main Street is a modest house with dusty blue siding, its paint slightly weathered in places; the kind of home that looks lived‑in rather than preserved. Flowerboxes hang from the windows, spilling over with slightly overgrown blooms—soft pinks, lilacs and yellows that brighten the front of the house in a way that feels effortless rather than curated. The driveway sits empty, marking the quiet pause between departures and arrivals that shape the rhythm of the home.
Inside, things are mostly in place, but not perfectly. A book lies half‑open on the coffee table; a beige sweater drapes loosely over the back of a brown leather chair. The air carries a faint mix of laundry detergent and something warm left too long in the kitchen. The dishwasher hums softly, a steady, comforting sound that fills the downstairs and makes the house feel quietly alive.
A girl with brown hair, tied back with a white ribbon, sits hunched over her workbook, pencil moving quickly before pausing as she taps it lightly against the page, her focus drifting for just a second before snapping back again.
There was something about Lucy Burb that reminded me of my own daughter at that age; the quiet intelligence, the restless curiosity, the sense that she was already searching for answers no one would give her.
I only hope Lucy finds the truth she’s looking for—Before Pleasantview teaches her why some truths are buried.
This is a home where voices carry easily between rooms, where routines overlap and small, ordinary moments, half‑finished conversations, footsteps on stairs, doors opening and closing, fill the space in ways no one thinks to question.
Upstairs, a woman with dark, wavy hair leans against the bathroom sink, her weight resting heavily against the porcelain as she stares down into the basin. The light above the mirror casts a pale, almost unforgiving glow across her face, picking out every tension line as she presses a finger lightly to her lips. Her breathing is slow and measured as if she’s trying to steady something just beneath the surface.
Jennifer Burb tried to do everything right. She married a good man, raised a bright daughter, and traded the hustle and bustle of SimCity for the promise of a simpler life.
But even in Pleasantview, Jennifer carried a secret fear: that she wasn’t built for the kind of happiness everyone expected from her.
And soon, that fear would grow harder to ignore.
Jennifer picks up the plastic stick from the sink, her fingers tightening slightly around it as she lifts it into the harsh bathroom light. The bulb above the mirror casts everything in a pale, unforgiving glow, leaving no shadow for doubt to hide in.
She tilts the test once. Then again, carefully and deliberately, as if a different angle might change what she’s seeing.
It doesn’t.
The small pink cross remains, clear and unmoving.
Her breath catches somewhere in her chest as she brings it closer, her eyes narrowing, trying to force the lines apart—willing them to blur into something else.
“I thought I’d been so careful…” she whispers, her voice barely holding together. “I never missed a day.”
The bathroom suddenly feels too small and too quiet.
“Mom!”
Lucy’s voice cuts sharply through the silence, bright, ordinary and completely unaware.
Jennifer flinches. The test slips from her fingers, striking the porcelain sink with a sharp, hollow clatter before coming to rest.
“Y—yes, dear!” she calls back, her voice catching before she forces it steady.
“I can’t find my cleats!”
Jennifer swallows, pressing her palm against the sink for balance as she stares at the test lying there, unchanged.
“Have you checked the downstairs bathroom?”
“No!”
Her hand lingers on the bathroom door handle for just a moment too long before she forces it open, leaving the answer sitting behind her in the sink.
“We got them, honey!” her husband’s voice calls up the stairs.
Jennifer steps into the hallway and peers down.
He stands below in his police officer’s uniform, the fabric slightly creased, the weight of exhaustion pulling at his posture. Dark circles frame his eyes, the toll of his night shift written plainly across his face in a way that feels impossible to ignore.
Still, he smiles up at her, holding the cleats just high enough for Lucy to be unable to grab them.
John Burb had always been a simple man in the best possible way; he was steady, patient and happiest with dirt under his fingernails and his family close by.
To him, returning to Pleasantview felt like coming home, a chance to raise his daughter beneath the same trees he climbed as a boy.
What John didn’t realise was that even the safest towns can hide storms—and his was already gathering on the horizon.
170 Main Street is one of the largest condos in the whole suburb, though still far from the grandest homes Pleasantview has to offer. Its bright white exterior matches the neighbouring residences perfectly—clean, uniform, almost indistinguishable at a glance—but up close, the details tell a different story.
Potted plants sit beside the front door, their leaves dry at the edges, some curling inward slightly as if forgotten for just a little too long. The air around the place feels still, heavy in a way that suggests the space inside is used more in bursts than in routine.
A battered car sits crookedly in the driveway, parked at an angle that suggests it has been abandoned in a hurry rather than carefully placed. Its dull grey paint is streaked with pollen and dust, the windows faintly clouded, as though it has been sitting outside far longer than intended.
The front door flies open.
A shirtless man with dark hair and a goatee stumbles out, tugging hurriedly at his belt as he moves. One of his shoes isn’t properly on, causing his steps to falter slightly as he tries to correct it without slowing down. His movements are rushed, uneven, more instinct than thought.
Behind him, a red‑haired woman appears in the doorway, wrapped in nothing but a black bikini.
“Hey—!” she calls after him, her voice bright but edged with amusement.
He turns just in time for a striped shirt to come flying toward him. He catches it one‑handed, barely breaking stride, already pulling it over his head as he rushes toward the neighbouring condo.
The woman lingers in the doorway; one shoulder pressed lightly against the frame as she watches him go.
She lifts her hand, blowing a kiss after him—slow, deliberate—her smile lingering just a second longer than the moment requires.
Nina Caliente had always been a woman who knew how to draw attention; onstage beneath neon lights, or in the dim corners of Pleasantview’s nightlife where shadows softened everything into something more forgiving.
She called herself a dancer, and perhaps she was—though the kind of dancing she did was not the kind most parents encouraged their daughters to pursue.
Still, Nina had never seemed bothered by judgment. When you live alone and love in short bursts, it becomes easier to ignore the whispers—easier still to pretend you never hear them at all.
Nina lets her hand fall slowly back to her side before turning inward again, pulling the door closed with a soft click behind her.
The living space bears the scattered remnants of the night before: clothes draped loosely over the backs of chairs, one black heel abandoned near the sofa while its pair sits farther across the room. A half‑empty wine glass rests on the coffee table, something sweet and sharp still lingering faintly in the air.
Nothing is urgent enough to clean.
Nothing ever stays long enough to matter.
Nina makes her way upstairs to the rooftop, her steps unhurried, the quiet of the condo trailing behind her. The morning air greets her as she steps outside, cool at first but already warming under the rising sun.
She pulls the cover from the hot tub, the vinyl shifting with a soft, resistant drag before folding back in on itself. Steam curls faintly upward from the water beneath, the surface already stirring with gentle bubbles.
At the bar beside it, she reaches for a drink without much thought, her fingers brushing lightly over the glass before lifting it. Condensation gathers against her skin as she takes it with her.
Nina slips into the water slowly, the warmth rising to meet her as she settles in, tension easing from her limbs almost instantly. The steady hum of the jets fills the quiet, surrounding her in a low, constant rhythm.
She tilts her head back, eyes closing as the morning sun settles across her face, soft and uninvited but not unwelcome.
For a moment, she lets herself drift—somewhere between the fading night and the promise of the one to come—mentally preparing for another shift, another set of faces, another version of herself she’ll slip into without hesitation.
55 Woodland Drive sits on the outskirts of Pleasantview, where the neat rows of suburbia begin to thin and give way to something quieter, something easier to overlook. It is part of the trailer park, a cluster of ageing homes pushed just far enough from the rest of the neighbourhood to be forgotten when it’s convenient.
The one pink trailer stands on the corner closest to the larger houses, its faded exterior dulled by time and weather. Close enough to be seen—if anyone cares to look—but distant enough to never really be noticed.
A rusty, red bike lies abandoned in the yard near the steps leading up to the trailer, one of its wheels bent inward from a long‑forgotten crash. It rests at an awkward angle, as though it has been dropped and never picked back up again.
Nearby, a row of rose bushes struggles against neglect, their leaves dry and curling, their once-pink blooms long since gone. What remains clings stubbornly to life, overlooked but not entirely gone.
Inside, the space is thick with disorder.
A takeout pizza box sits open on the grimy counter, the pepperoni slices that remain hardened and inedible, the faint smell lingering unpleasantly in the air. The surfaces around it are sticky in places, cluttered with the remnants of days that have blurred together without pause.
Laundry lies scattered across both the linoleum and worn carpet—some clean, some not, all indistinguishable now—layered in uneven piles that shift underfoot. The cupboards stand nearly bare, their emptiness more noticeable than anything they might have once held.
On the floor, a blonde toddler crawls slowly from one spot to another, small hands pressing against the uneven surface as they search for something—anything—to hold their attention. A loose wrapper crinkles faintly beneath their fingers, enough to earn a moment’s interest before being dropped again.
In the next room, a teenage boy with the same pale blonde hair lies asleep, tangled in worn covers that offer little protection from the cold air slipping through a window that refuses to close properly. The thin curtain stirs slightly with each draft, brushing softly against the wall.
He doesn’t wake.
He’s used to it.
At the centre of it all, a woman sits at a battered table that looks as though it has been taken from a diner and never returned. The metal legs are uneven, forcing it to tilt slightly under the pressure of her arms.
Her black hair is pulled back into a claw clip that has begun to slip loose, strands falling around her face as she leans forward.
Spread out before her are yellow and pink letters, their edges creased, some already opened, others still sealed—each one placed with a kind of careless intention that suggests she has been through them more than once.
She bites at her nails absently, her gaze moving between the letters without ever fully settling, as though she already knows what they say and is still hoping something might change.
I never knew Brandi Broke well. She lived on the edge of Pleasantview, in a house that always seemed one bill away from collapsing.
But since my disappearance, I’ve watched her more closely — a young widow trying to raise two boys on a budget that barely stretched to the end of the week.
Grief had taken her husband, poverty had taken her peace, and now her eldest son was slipping through her fingers.
Some women break under pressure. Brandi kept going, mostly because she had no other choice.
Brandi’s hand moves instinctively to her stomach, her fingers pressing lightly against it as though grounding herself. The motion is unconscious—protective, almost.
Her face drains of colour as her blue eyes drift again and again over the letters scattered across the table, the words blurring together until they barely make sense anymore.
Still, she stares—hoping, absurdly, that if she looks long enough, the numbers might change, that simoleons might appear where there are none.
The sound of movement from the next room breaks through the stillness.
The teenage boy steps out, rubbing sleep from his eyes as he crosses the threshold, his movements slow and heavy with exhaustion. His hair sticks up unevenly, his expression still caught somewhere between sleep and responsibility.
He nearly trips over the toddler crawling across the floor, catching himself at the last second with a muttered breath before bending down to scoop the child up in one arm. The toddler shifts easily against him, small hands grasping at his shirt as though this routine is familiar—practised.
The boy moves toward the kitchen, stepping carefully over the scattered laundry, his bare foot catching briefly on a loose sleeve before he pulls free and keeps going.
He reaches the refrigerator and pulls it open.
There’s nothing inside that matters.
“We’re out of food,” he mumbles, his voice rough and quiet, as though saying it too loudly might somehow make it worse.
“I know.”
Brandi’s answer comes sharp, cutting across the space before softening almost immediately, as though even she hadn’t meant for it to sound that way.
The boy frowns slightly, shifting his weight as he adjusts the toddler on his hip, bouncing him gently once, twice. The motion is automatic, absent‑minded, but steady.
Dustin Broke had a reputation in Pleasantview—the troublemaker from the trailer park, the boy who skipped school, the teenager no one expected much from.
What most people didn’t see was the toddler he fed every morning, the bills he quietly tried to keep out of his mother’s sight, or the careful way he balanced a life that never seemed to give him enough room to stand in it.
Dustin wasn’t a bad kid. That’s just the story people tell about him. He was simply a boy trying to survive a life that keeps asking him to choose between things he shouldn’t have to—a life that pushed him toward choices he wasn’t ready to make and consequences he wasn’t prepared to face.
“Do we have any money to buy more food?” Dustin asks, more directly this time—no hesitation, no attempt to soften the question.
Brandi doesn’t answer straight away.
Instead, she lowers her head into her hands, her palms pressing hard against her eyes as if she can force the problem out of existence.
“No.”
The word comes out quieter this time, hollow and final.
Dustin bites down lightly on his lip, turning his head toward one of the dusty windows. The glass is clouded just enough to blur the outside world, softening it into something distant—something easier to pretend isn’t just out of reach.
He stares a little longer than necessary.
Long enough for the silence to settle in again.
210 Wright Way stands on one of Pleasantview’s quieter streets, its size alone enough to draw the eye even among the larger homes that surround it. White siding stretches cleanly across three storeys, the sharp lines of the structure broken only by two chimneys rising from the roof and the wide veranda that frames the front entrance. Covered porches sit on either side, symmetrical and inviting—at least in design, if not in feeling.
The house looks ready to be lived in.
It just isn’t.
It has stood empty for a while now, the last of its former occupants having passed quietly with age, leaving the space untouched. Long enough for dust to settle where it shouldn’t. Long enough for the rooms inside to lose the shape of the lives they once held.
For a house like this, that kind of stillness is noticeable.
Which is why it doesn’t stay on the market long—not once people realise it’s waiting to be filled again.
Just last week, a moving van pulled up outside, its low rumble breaking the silence. Workers moved in and out through the open doors, carrying the last remnants of the previous owners’ lives—boxed, stripped, and taken away piece by piece.
By the time they leave, the house is emptier than before.
Cleaner.
Ready.
But the quiet doesn’t last.
A bright yellow sports car tears up the road, its engine cutting sharply through the morning stillness before it stops abruptly at the curb.
The driver’s side door lifts upward with a smooth mechanical hiss.
A young blonde man climbs out, his movements unhurried now, in contrast to his arrival. His clothes are sharp, expensive—carefully chosen in a way that suggests effort while pretending not to.
The sun catches against his tanned skin as he steps fully into view, taking in the house for a moment longer than necessary as if he’s already imagining it as his.
Malcolm Landgraab IV was a man I never met, though his family’s name echoed through Pleasantview long before I arrived.
The Landgraabs were old money — the kind that built empires out of real estate, appliances, and the occasional ruined competitor.
Malcolm himself had been orphaned young and raised by grandparents who valued profit over sentiment. He grew into a handsome, naive playboy until marriage reshaped him into something steadier. Or so he liked people to believe.
Casually, Malcolm moves around the passenger side of the car, his pace unhurried now, the sharp energy of his arrival already settling into something more deliberate.
He reaches for the handle and pulls the door open, extending his hand inside without looking—confident in the response that follows.
A dainty hand meets his, fingers cool and perfectly manicured, nails catching the light in small, precise flashes.
He steadies her as she steps out, her movements controlled, practised, each one carried with just enough intention to be noticed.
The rest of her follows easily—a blonde woman dressed in a black dress that clings tightly, leaving little to the imagination, especially for this time of day.
On her hand, two rings sit side by side. One large, emerald-cut stone that catches the light sharply. The other, a wedding band, is set with smaller diamonds that glitter more quietly, but no less deliberately.
She straightens, smoothing the fabric of her dress with a quick, almost absent motion before lifting her gaze. First to Malcolm. Then to the house.
Her green eyes linger there, taking it in fully—size, space, possibility—before a slow smile begins to form, brightening her expression just enough to make the moment feel real.
Like she already sees how it fits her.
Dina Caliente had always been a woman who landed on her feet — usually in the home of a wealthy man.
She returned to Pleasantview draped in diamonds and Malcolm’s last name, smiling as though she’d earned every bit of her new life.
I had no evidence to accuse her of anything. Still, when a woman’s first husband dies under mysterious circumstances, and her second is richer than the first ever was, suspicion becomes difficult to ignore.
At the centre of Pleasantview, 165 Sim Lane stands apart from everything around it.
A large, three-storey mansion stretches upward behind dark iron fencing, its grey siding and steep black roofs casting a heavier presence against the softer, brighter homes nearby. The Gothic design feels deliberate—imposing rather than inviting—its sharp lines lingering where others fade more easily into the street.
A small porch marks the front entrance, modest in scale compared to the house itself, while matching covered porches sit on either side, perfectly balanced yet strangely underused.
The symmetry is neat.
At the back of the property, the space opens out. A wedding arch stands prepared beneath the open sky, its structure still waiting to be dressed, to be claimed by a moment that hasn’t arrived yet. Nearby, a small cemetery rests quietly within the grounds—six gravestones set in careful rows, their surfaces worn smooth by time, the names already beginning to fade.
The garden surrounding them feels uneven in comparison—trees and shrubs growing in thick clusters, some older than the house itself, their branches stretching higher than they were ever meant to.
Nothing here feels entirely new.
Not even the things that are supposed to be.
High above, on the rooftop deck, a telescope sits angled toward the sky, forgotten. Its metal stand shows the first signs of rust, untouched for long enough that even the view it once offered feels distant.
Inside, one of the bedrooms glows with a softer palette—yellow walls, green carpet, the colours gentler but no less controlled.
A woman stands at the centre of the room, surrounded by white and ivory gowns hanging in quiet rows around her, each nearly identical at first glance.
She moves between them, trying one after another, adjusting fabric, smoothing seams, stepping back to look—only to frown each time at what she sees reflected at her.
Nothing quite fits.
Not the way it should.
Her dark hair is tied into two pigtails that sit higher than expected, almost defying gravity, framing her face in a way that feels carefully arranged rather than effortless.
She pushes her round glasses further up her nose, turning slightly to inspect the back of the gown she’s wearing now—the ivory one—her hands lingering at the fabric as though trying to reshape it.
It doesn’t change.
She stares a moment longer than necessary.
My daughter, Cassandra, had always been the brightest mind in any room — thoughtful, brilliant, and far too gentle for a world that rewarded neither.
She grew into a woman I was endlessly proud of, a biologist with a mind sharp enough to unravel the mysteries of life itself.
But even the cleverest women can be blind to love. And as I watch her prepare to marry Pleasantview’s most charming liar, I feel a fear no mother ever escapes: the fear of losing a daughter to a man unworthy of her.
Downstairs, in the entrance hall, a boy sits at the piano, hands resting lightly on the keys as he works through the same set of chords again and again.
The music comes slowly, carefully and deliberately, but never quite settles into something smooth.
Around him, the space rises upward; wooden floors polished beneath his feet, panelled walls stretching high toward the ceiling, lined with dark iron candelabras that remain unlit. Plants fill the gaps between, their leaves casting soft shadows that shift with the morning light.
The house feels too big for the sound he’s making.
He pauses, frowning slightly as he looks between the sheet music propped in front of him and the keys beneath his fingers, as though something in the space between them refuses to line up.
The boy is pale, dressed neatly in his blue private school uniform, his socks pulled high, everything sitting where it should, almost too precisely. Like his older sister upstairs, round glasses rest on his nose, slipping just enough to be noticeable. He pushes them back up with two fingers, the gesture quick and familiar, before returning his attention to the piano.
The next chord lands—slightly off. The sound is rigid. Mechanical. As though he’s playing each note exactly as it’s written but missing something in between.
His face remains set, far too serious for someone his age, his focus narrowing with each attempt as he repeats the same progression.
Outside, somewhere beyond the heavy walls, the distant sound of the morning begins to carry—cars passing, voices, the quiet rhythm of the neighbourhood waking up.
Still, he doesn’t stop.
Not until he gets it right.
My son, Alexander, was only ten when I vanished; a quiet, brilliant boy standing on the edge of adolescence with a mind far older than his years.
He loved chess, books, and the kind of questions most adults didn’t have the patience to answer. I wish I could be there to watch him grow, to see the man he will become.
But all I can do now is watch from afar—and hope he never feels the emptiness I left behind.
Back upstairs, in the primary bedroom, an older man sits at a heavy wooden desk, surrounded by books long out of print. Their pages are worn thin with age; their spines creased from years of careful handling.
He leans over them, reading slowly, deliberately—though his eyes linger more than they move, as if searching for something just beyond the words themselves.
The room reflects the rest of the house. Red carpet spreads beneath him, rich but dark, absorbing the already limited light. Panelled walls rise around the space, heavy and enclosing, their deep tones echoing the Gothic exterior beyond.
The bed behind him is made with careful precision. The sheets lie smooth and undisturbed—except for one side. One pillow shows the faint impression of use, softer, slightly collapsed. The other remains untouched.
Above it hangs a portrait.
His wife.
Without warning, the man pushes himself to his feet, the motion slow but purposeful. He crosses the room and comes to a stop at the far side of the bed.
His hand—thin, unsteady but deliberate—moves across the fabric of the sheets, fingers brushing lightly along their surface as though tracing something that is no longer there. The wedding ring on his hand catches the light briefly as he lifts it, still worn, still present.
His eyes rise to the portrait.
Her skin is tanned, her expression caught somewhere between movement and stillness. Dark hair falls across her face, obscuring one eye—leaving the other just visible enough to hold his gaze.
He adjusts his red cardigan, fingers lingering on the buttons before straightening his bowtie, tightening it carefully, as though preparing for something that requires no audience.
“Whatever happened to you, mi amor?”
His voice is quiet. The room offers no answer.
Mortimer Goth had been many things in my life — my childhood companion, my first love, and the man I chose long before anyone whispered that I married him for his family’s fortune.
He grew into a brilliant scientist, admired across the world, yet he always returned home to me with the same shy smile he’d had as a boy.
Now, as I watch him sit alone in the house we once shared, I feel the ache of a truth I never spoke aloud: I miss him more than he will ever know, and he misses me more than he dares admit.
Pleasantview is a town where everyone plays their part.
Mary‑Sue stands at the kitchen counter, the refrigerator door still open behind her as she reaches in and pulls out a carton of milk. Bella Goth’s face stares back from the side of it—bright, composed, familiar.
Mary‑Sue sets it down without looking for long. Behind her, Daniel adjusts the collar of his assistant coach’s uniform, already late. He leans in just long enough to press a quick kiss to her cheek before moving toward the door.
He doesn’t wait for her to turn.
Some people learn how to play the role of a good wife.
Across town, Jennifer pushes the fridge closed with her hip, leaving another carton of milk on the counter beside the stove. Bella’s face catches the light briefly before disappearing beneath the steam rising from the pot in front of her.
She stirs without thinking, the motion slow and steady.
John steps up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist, his chin resting lightly against her shoulder. He kisses her cheek, lingering just a moment longer than necessary.
She doesn’t stop stirring.
Others learn how to hold things together.
In the trailer on Woodland Drive, Brandi moves quickly from one side of the room to the other, gathering clothes from the floor into arms already too full.
The door opens behind her. Dustin steps inside, dirt smudged across his face, the sleeve of his jersey torn at the seam. He lets the door fall shut behind him without looking.
Brandi turns, her words coming fast, sharper than she intends, the weight of everything else pulling behind them. The laundry doesn’t fall—but it nearly does.
Some people are expected to endure more than others.
In a crowded dressing room, Nina sits before a mirror bordered by harsh lights, applying makeup with steady, practised precision. Around her, voices overlap—laughter, conversation, music bleeding faintly from the stage beyond.
She barely looks at them.
For a moment, her gaze shifts past her reflection—toward the stage just beyond the curtain, where a younger girl moves beneath the lights, her form fluid, effortless.
Nina’s expression tightens.
In another room, Dina steps out of the bathroom, dressed in black silk that catches the light with every movement.
Malcolm waits on the bed, watching her, his smile easy, rehearsed.
She moves toward him slowly, deliberate in every step. Her fingers catch briefly at her lower lip before she lets it go.
Some learn how to become exactly what others want to see.
At 165 Sim Lane, the dining table sits large and untouched between them.
Cassandra, Alexander, and Mortimer eat in silence, the only sound the quiet movement of cutlery against plates.
No one speaks.
No one needs to.
Some families begin to fall apart long before anyone notices.
Yes. Pleasantview is a town full of secrets. Some are small enough to ignore. Some are heavy enough to carry. And some that should never see the light of day.
Someone in Pleasantview knows why I disappeared.
They just haven’t told the truth yet.