The Day Silence Spoke novel Chapter 332

Clifford took another drag of his cigarette, offering no response. Seeing the dark, unfathomable look in his boss's eyes, a chill ran down Ziven's spine.

Meanwhile, Latisha was at Mortimer's pet sanctuary.

When Mortimer learned she didn't want to go home, he brought her straight here. There were plenty of places to sleep, after all.

Mortimer led her to a small dormitory and flicked on the light. "You can stay here. It has the basics, but the heating is busted, so it might get pretty chilly tonight."

It was a modest, single room with a simple bed and an en-suite bathroom.

As Mortimer laid out the sheets, he explained, "We have a ton of empty rooms, but Sean is the only one who actually lives here full-time. Some of the other volunteers crash here for a night or two occasionally. Don't worry, these blankets are brand new."

Latisha nodded gratefully and signed: *Thank you.*

Mortimer rubbed the back of his neck, grinning. "No need to thank me. Get some sleep. Tomorrow morning, I'll take you to see the newborn puppies."

Latisha agreed with a small smile, and Mortimer stepped out, closing the door behind him.

She took a moment to look around. The walls were paneled with wood, giving the tiny space a surprisingly cozy, cabin-like feel.

After washing up, she pulled her pill organizers from her bag. She was currently on two different medications: the standard prescription the doctor had given her yesterday, and the holistic supplements provided by Dr. Harmon.

Dr. Harmon's remedies were absolutely essential to prevent her cognitive decline from accelerating. While the supplements were mainly suppressive—and she couldn't feel an immediate difference—they at least kept her condition from deteriorating further.

For the most part, she could still piece together memories if she didn't push herself. Like any normal person, the things she didn't actively try to recall remained faded in the background. Her unique tragedy, however, was that the harder she tried to remember certain specific events, the blanker her mind became.

After taking her medication, Latisha pulled out her journal, lying on her stomach as she documented the day's events.

Once finished, she tucked the notebook safely back into her bag, switched off the light, and curled up under the covers.

Yet, her eyes fluttered open again. She tapped on Clifford's profile. His page was nothing but a flat grey line. Of course—he never posted anything anyway.

Just as she was about to exit the app, her gaze lingered on his profile picture.

It was a muted, faded image. When minimized, it was impossible to tell what it was. Driven by a sudden, aching curiosity, she tapped to enlarge it.

As the image filled her screen, her breath hitched. It was a picture of two brown stuffed dolls.

The photo was taken far too close, and the amateur framing meant the dolls were partially cut off. But looking closely, she could see they were sitting side by side, nestled sweetly against each other on a shelf. One of the dolls had a severed arm that had been clumsily stitched back on.

Whoever had repaired it had used jagged, uneven stitches, leaving that arm noticeably shorter than the other.

Latisha's eyes trembled as she zoomed in further. In a blinding flash of realization, the memory hit her.