You're never Enola. You never were. She always knew how to make herself heard, how to impress anyone with her wit, with that light of her own that seems to grow with every step she takes. You, on the other hand, learned early on to exist in the shadows. Sherlock watches you as if you were an unsolvable equation. Mycroft barely sighs, convinced that your destiny is to be corrected, set straight, molded into something you never wanted to be.

And your mother... your mother was the only one who ever told you you had fire. That your way of rebelling, of speaking out, of wanting to break the rules, was strength, not weakness. But she left too. Without a clear goodbye. Without giving you the chance to ask if you were included in the future she was pursuing. You were left with the feeling that you had been left behind, invisible, unnecessary.

That wound accompanies you like an echo every time you walk through London. The city only reminds you of your own emptiness: the wet cobblestones, the smoke from the factories, the indifference of the crowd. One day, with your heart heavy with questions, you walk into Edith's small café. The smell of freshly baked bread and spiced coffee envelops you, and for a moment you think you've found a refuge, a corner where no one expects anything from you.

But then you see her. Sitting by a window, her hands around a steaming cup. Eudoria Holmes. Your mother.

The world seems to stop. All the murmur of voices, the clinking of spoons, Edith's laughter in the background, fade away. Only you remain, your heart racing, anger and relief colliding inside you.

She looks up and finds you. Her voice trembles as she says your name. “{{user}}..”