It was a cracking winter’s day, the kind that made you want to wrap up warm and take it all in. Snowflakes—those delicate white flies—were tumbling down from the heavens like feathers from a celestial pillow fight. The air outside had a nip to it, but indoors, Andrew was as snug as a bug in a rug, perched on his well-loved couch with a newspaper spread before him. His gaze moved slowly across the page, as if weighing up every word, his expression giving nothing away but quiet thought.
The fireplace was doing its bit, roaring away cheerfully as the flames crackled and popped, filling the room with a comforting warmth. Shadows from the firelight flickered across the walls, dancing like they hadn’t a care in the world. Limba, his cat, was curled up beside him, purring like a contented little motorbike, her tail occasionally twitching as if dreaming of something mischievous.
The room itself was a proper treasure trove. Carpets hung all over the place, bright and intricate, each one telling a story if you cared to listen. They gave the space a cozy, lived-in feel, like stepping into the pages of a well-thumbed storybook. It was a moment of pure bliss, the kind where time seems to stand still, and Andrew couldn’t have been more at ease if he’d tried. Let the world outside do its worst; in here, all was right as rain.
Suddenly, Andrew’s eyes widened as they fell upon a photograph nestled amidst the black-and-white columns of the newspaper. He blinked, leaned closer, and read the accompanying caption, his heart skipping a beat. There, staring back at him with that unmistakable smile, was a face he hadn’t seen in years.
"Jenny!" he murmured, barely louder than a whisper, the name tasting both familiar and foreign on his tongue. "It can’t be… or can it?"
His mind raced as he stared at the image, the newspaper trembling slightly in his hands. Memories flooded in, unbidden—her laughter, the way her hair caught the sunlight, the warmth of her presence. What on earth was she doing here, on this page, in this moment? He scanned the article, desperate for answers, a gnawing curiosity mingling with a sense of disbelief.
The room seemed to hold its breath with him. Even Limba stirred, lifting her head to glance at him quizzically, as if sensing the sudden shift in his mood. The crackling of the fire, once a comforting backdrop, now seemed distant, drowned out by the pounding of his heart. Could it really be Jenny? And if it was… what did it mean?
Andrew sat frozen, his eyes glued to the final paragraph of the article, disbelief flooding his senses. *Jenny Morrison, 34, tragically lost her life after a domestic altercation turned fatal. Police have arrested her boyfriend, who is accused of throwing her from the fifth floor of their flat.*
The words blurred as his mind reeled, his breath coming in shallow gasps. His heart hammered in his chest, refusing to accept what he’d just read. "No," he muttered, shaking his head. "No, this can’t be right." He reread the lines, hoping, praying, that he’d misread, that the words would somehow rearrange themselves into something less devastating.
With a surge of fury, he crumpled the newspaper and hurled it across the room. Limba, startled by the sudden movement, leapt from her spot on the couch and darted to the corner, her wide eyes fixed on him. The fire crackled uneasily, the warmth of the room now feeling stifling, suffocating.
Andrew rose abruptly, pacing back and forth, his mind racing. How could this be true? Jenny was so full of life, so vibrant. The idea of her being gone—violently taken—was incomprehensible. He clenched his fists, a mix of anger, grief, and denial bubbling to the surface.
"I don’t believe it," he said aloud, his voice trembling. "I *won’t* believe it."
Limba meowed softly, padding over to him and rubbing against his leg, as though sensing his turmoil. He paused, looking down at her. "She can’t be gone, Limba," he whispered, his voice cracking. "She just can’t be."
A thought began to form in his mind—a desperate, irrational thought. He had to find out for himself. The article could be wrong, couldn’t it? Mistakes were made in journalism all the time. Perhaps they’d misidentified her. Perhaps it was someone else entirely.
He grabbed his coat from the hook, barely noticing the way his hands trembled. Limba let out a plaintive meow as he headed toward the door, her amber eyes following him.
"I’ll be back," he said, though he wasn’t sure to whom—the cat, himself, or perhaps to Jenny, as though she could somehow hear him.
Stepping into the cold night, the snow crunched beneath his boots as he walked with determined strides. The chill bit at his skin, but he barely noticed. All he knew was that he needed answers. Jenny couldn’t be gone. Not like this. Not without him knowing the truth.
And so, Andrew set off into the snowy evening, driven by a desperate hope and the lingering belief that some stories didn’t end the way they were written.
The snow crunched beneath Andrew’s boots as he made his way toward the police station, the sharp winter air cutting through his coat. He had to know—he had to find out what happened to Jenny, and this was the only place that could hold the answers. He pushed open the door, the warm air from inside hitting him like a wave, but it couldn’t calm the storm inside him.
At the front desk, a police officer glanced up as he approached. The officer looked him over briefly, then returned to tapping at his keyboard.
“Can I help you?” the officer asked, his voice as cold as the weather outside.
Andrew swallowed, steeling himself. “I’m looking for information on Jenny Morrison,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady, though his heart was pounding. “I need to know what happened to her.”
The officer’s fingers paused mid-air, his eyes narrowing. “Jenny Morrison, huh?” He set the pen down slowly, his gaze now fixed on Andrew with more intensity. “And who exactly are you to her?”
Andrew’s throat went dry. He hadn’t prepared for this question. *Who was he to her now?* Back then, he was her friend, her lover, the one who understood her in ways no one else could. But now... now he was just a man asking questions about a tragic death. He hesitated, unsure of what to say, how to justify his presence here.
"Are you a relative?" The officer's tone was more clipped now, his eyebrows furrowed. "A brother, maybe? We don’t just give out information to random people. Not like this."
Andrew shook his head, feeling the weight of the question settle heavily on him. "No," he said quietly. "I’m not a relative. I... I used to know her, though. A long time ago. We were close." He almost regretted saying it, but it was the truth. He’d known Jenny when they were younger, and that history was the only reason he was standing here now, asking about her death. But the officer didn’t seem convinced.
The officer raised an eyebrow. “Used to know her, eh? Doesn’t sound like a good enough reason for us to break protocol, mate. I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but I can’t hand over any files without a solid reason. Unless you can prove some connection, I’m afraid you’re out of luck.”
Andrew felt his frustration bubbling up. He had to know. He couldn’t just walk away, not when he had come this far. “Please,” he said, his voice firm now. “I just need to know what happened to her. It’s... it’s important.”
The officer seemed to soften for a moment, but only slightly. “I’m sorry, mate. But unless you’re family or have legal standing, there’s not much I can do. That’s the way it is.”
Andrew’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. His mind raced. He could feel the old connection to Jenny stirring inside him—the part of him that had once loved her, once shared so much with her. The part of him that refused to believe she was really gone, that some mistake hadn’t been made. But now, it seemed as if the world was closing in on him, making it harder and harder to find the answers he so desperately needed.
“I’m sorry,” the officer repeated, turning back to his desk. "You’re wasting your time. Come back when you can prove you’re family or have a legitimate reason to be asking about this.”
Andrew stood there for a moment, the cold realization sinking in that he wouldn’t get any answers today. He didn’t know what else to do, so he nodded, his throat tight. Without a word, he turned and walked back out into the snow, his mind reeling with unanswered questions and the unbearable weight of Jenny’s absence.
As he stepped back into the cold, the world seemed even quieter than before, the snow falling in soft, unbroken silence, just as it had when he first began his journey here. But now, the chill felt different. It wasn’t just the air that was cold; it was everything.
Determined not to let the dead end at the police station stop him, Andrew pushed on through the snow-covered streets until he reached the Lost and Found Office. The nondescript building stood quietly under the weight of the weather, its frosted windows glowing faintly with artificial light. Andrew stepped inside, shaking off the snow clinging to his coat and boots.
The office was sparse, the hum of a radiator the only sound accompanying the ticking clock on the wall. Behind the reception desk sat a woman in her forties with sharp features and a weary expression, clearly unimpressed by the steady trickle of inquiries she likely fielded every day. She barely glanced up when Andrew approached.
“Morning,” she said, her tone as cold as the snow outside. “What’re you here for?”
Andrew cleared his throat, bracing himself for another uphill battle. “I need to file an application,” he said firmly, setting his jaw. “It’s about someone. Jenny Morrison.”
The name caught her attention. Her eyes snapped to his face, her brow furrowing. “Jenny Morrison?” she repeated, her voice tinged with suspicion. “As in *that* Jenny Morrison? The one from the papers this morning?”
Andrew’s stomach twisted at the confirmation that Jenny’s name was inescapable, a headline spread across the city like wildfire. “Yes,” he replied evenly, his voice betraying none of the storm inside him. “That Jenny Morrison.”
The woman frowned, leaning back in her chair. “You’re joking, right? Didn’t you see the news? The poor woman was...” She hesitated, as though the words themselves were hard to speak. “She’s gone. What exactly are you hoping to find here?”
Andrew squared his shoulders, refusing to let the conversation end so quickly. “I don’t believe she’s gone,” he said, his voice steely with conviction. “I need to file the application. I need this on record.”
The woman stared at him, as though trying to decide if he was delusional or simply desperate. Finally, she sighed, pulling a form from a stack on her desk. “Look,” she said, sliding it toward him, “I’ll let you file it, but I can’t promise anything will come of it. If you ask me, you’re chasing shadows.”
Andrew ignored her words, snatching up the form and beginning to fill it out with trembling hands. Each letter felt like a plea, a silent call out into the void for Jenny to answer, to prove him right.
As he wrote, the woman kept her gaze on him, the skepticism softening ever so slightly. “You really think she’s alive?” she asked, her voice quieter now, almost curious.
Andrew paused, the pen hovering over the paper. Did he? Or was this just a refusal to let go, to accept the brutal reality laid bare in black-and-white newsprint? “I don’t know,” he admitted finally, his voice almost a whisper. “But if there’s even the smallest chance... I have to find out.”
The woman studied him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. “Alright,” she said, taking the completed form from him. “I’ll file it. But don’t get your hopes up, yeah? This is probably going nowhere.”
Andrew gave her a curt nod, not trusting himself to speak. As he turned to leave, she called after him. “Hey, if I hear anything... I’ll let you know.”
Stepping back into the icy morning, Andrew pulled his coat tighter around him. The snow continued to fall, blanketing the city in a muffled hush. Despite the cold and the odds stacked against him, there was a flicker of warmth inside him—a spark of hope.
Jenny’s story wasn’t over. Not if he had anything to say about it.
The evening was heavy with silence as Andrew returned to his flat, his body cold from the biting wind but his spirit no closer to any answers. The once-cozy warmth of his home now felt hollow, a stark contrast to the turmoil within him. Limba, ever the empathetic companion, padded up to him the moment he stepped inside. She wound herself around his legs, her fur brushing softly against him, her purring like a gentle balm to his frayed nerves.
Andrew gave her a faint smile, bending down to scratch behind her ears. "At least you’re here, eh, Limba?" he muttered.
Still, the unease wouldn’t leave him. It gnawed at him, relentless. He needed to do something, anything, to feel closer to the truth. Shrugging off his coat and boots, Andrew made his way to the couch and pulled his laptop onto his lap, its cold surface jarring against his fingers.
He hesitated for a moment, staring at the screen as it flickered to life. It felt almost intrusive, this act of searching for Jenny on the digital web—a realm she’d always disdained. Jenny had never been one for oversharing. "The world doesn’t need to know my every thought," she used to say, a wry smile playing on her lips. It was one of the things he’d admired about her, her insistence on living fully in the moment without seeking validation from strangers.
Still, desperate times called for desperate measures. Andrew opened a browser and began typing her name: Jenny Morrison.
The results were as frustratingly vague as he had feared—common names yielded hundreds of unrelated profiles, none of them her. He refined his search: Jenny Morrison, London. Again, nothing. No Facebook, no Instagram, no LinkedIn. No record of her life in the era of oversharing. It was as though she had managed to exist in the cracks of the internet, her presence felt only in the memories of those who knew her.
He sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. “Of course,” he muttered under his breath. “That’s so you, Jenny.”
But the thought did little to soothe him. If the journalists had managed to find out about her, surely there had to be something—a trace, a thread to pull. He opened another tab and searched for articles about her death, dreading what he might find. His stomach churned as he clicked on a headline that mirrored the one in his newspaper.
“Tragic Death in Central London: Woman Killed in Domestic Altercation.”
The article offered no new information, only the same grim details he’d read before. Her boyfriend—now in custody—was being questioned. Neighbors spoke of arguments overheard in the days leading up to the incident. The words felt clinical, detached, as though they were talking about a stranger and not the vibrant, fiercely independent woman he had once known.
Frustrated, Andrew slammed the laptop shut. Limba jumped slightly at the noise, her wide amber eyes watching him intently. She leapt onto the couch and curled up beside him, pressing her warmth against his side.
“Sorry, girl,” he murmured, stroking her fur absently. “I just... I don’t know what to do.”
Limba purred in response, her steady vibration a reminder of life’s small comforts.
Andrew leaned back, his head resting against the couch. He closed his eyes, trying to picture Jenny as she had been: her laughter, her defiance, her unyielding spirit. It was impossible to reconcile that image with the cold, faceless narrative in the papers.
“She’s out there,” he whispered to himself, the words barely audible. “I know she is.”
The snow continued to fall outside, a soft, relentless reminder of time’s passage. For now, Andrew could only wait, the unanswered questions circling his mind like shadows, refusing to let him rest.
