Free The Glass Secret (Chain of Secrets) by Leilani Bennett Page A

thoughts as I carefully unfolded the fragile parchment paper, my pulse skipped unsuspectingly of what I would find.
    “It was found in the pocket of your sweater.” He spoke slowly, almost too slowly, as if someone hit a slow motion button. It was actually quite eerie.
    The edges of the delicate linen paper were bent and dirty, certainly it was old or at least it appeared to be. I stared hard-pressed at the tattered paper and focused on the prose. The penmanship, although nice, didn’t look like mine. I wasn’t sure what he wanted me to do with the note, other than read it. So I did, out loud.
     
    My life is a spiral staircase made of icy marble. I feel as if am being followed by someone that I want to know. My fate unravels with each forward step...his footsteps hasten. He is near, watching me from the shadows. He is coming for me. The time is short. I will be ready when he arrives.
     
    -1945 My love, find me...
     
    “You write beautiful poetry, Miss Eden,” the doctor said, smiling sagely down at me. When he smiled, he had such a charismatic inner glow.
    Where did that thought come from? He had to have been at least twenty years my senior.
    “Thank you, but I can’t take credit for this—look, it’s dated way before my time.” I gingerly held the note out in his direction, so he could see for himself.
    A puzzled expression registered on his face. He said, “I see, but—” then he hesitated.
    It was dated 1945. Certainly, he did not think I looked as if I was in my eighties. “But, you’re right, it’s exquisite.” My voice labored, almost apologetically I said, “I wish I wrote it, but I didn’t...they’re not my words.”
    Although the poem was beautiful and touching, I had no idea what the prose meant to the author who wrote it, or who that was. I concentrated for a moment on how I ended up in this place. Hell, I couldn’t even remember why I was in Paris. And, why the hell did this doctor want to know my life story? The last thing I wanted to do was talk.
    I fought to shut down the war that ricocheted back and forth in my mind like a pinball machine. Why couldn’t I remember jack squat? I forced myself to decompress. My eyes fluttered shut for a moment as I held the poem to my chest. Feeling somewhat drowsy, I drifted into a corner of my mind, searching for what I had lost. My memories. I wanted them back.
    The last thing I could remember was going to sleep and as usual falling slowly into a cloud of darkness. This was not unusual, because it supported the repetitive dreams that I have had for most of my life; there was always a thin misty haze surrounding me in my dreams.
    The most recent dream I could recall was that I was caught in the center of a wind gust, and there was a lovely woman with me. She resembled a version of me, only older. Then came the shift, I was on the subway, and then I woke up here.
    Perhaps I am dreaming now, I thought. I am one of those people who have dreams within dreams. I find that these kinds of dreams are the most frightening ones of all because you believe you are awake, only to discover you are still sleeping. It is a scary feeling when you fight to wake up and when you do, you find that you are still trapped inside the dream itself. In hindsight it would have been a blessing.
     
     
    -8-
    Too many theories
     
    The doctor placed his hand on my shoulders and consolingly patted me, or maybe it was a patronizing gesture. The way someone might when they don’t believe you, or they feel you are in a fragile state of mind. His touch jarred me back to the task at hand. Back to the poem that I knew I hadn’t written.
    He then replied, “If you say you didn’t write it, then maybe you didn’t...it’s just...” He took my hand without removing the note and turned my wrist around so I could see the back of the paper. “Do you know what this means?”
    I maneuvered the page completely around, revealing script I hadn’t previously noticed. I read the words to