Andrea Benadine ended up back in the hospital near the start of April. It seemed almost inevitable; for years now, she'd been having what Lance Benadine so lovingly referred to as "episodes." Doctors had not yet been able to get to the root of the "episodes," and—as Lance asserted time and time again—they were no closer to figuring anything out than they were when they started. All that was really known were the symptoms: fainting spells, mumbled gibberish, forgetfulness, incidents of seemingly being completely unaware of her actions.

Norberta came home to visit on the weekend. As much as she didn't want to stay with her father, she knew she had to see her mother. She'd been through this song and dance time and time again. Andrea would be in the hospital anywhere from a couple days to a couple weeks, depending on how bad she was. There would be a few scares (unresponsiveness, wanderings that almost amounted to sleepwalking, even screaming fits, though those were few), but she would eventually mysteriously recover and be let out. Norberta hoped that's how it would end up, at least.

Lance and Norberta planned to make the trip up to Medula on Saturday. It felt strange to Norberta to spend the night in her old room, something she'd only done a handful of times since her parents had separated. It reminded her of the days when Sarah's murder was fresh, and they were all staying here. In some way, she felt closer to Sarah, which, strangely, wasn't very comforting. She felt a little as if she just ripped the skin open on a wound that had finally begun to heal.

As such, she knew very well that it was a mistake to wander into Sarah's room, but she did so anyway, her feet leading her even as her mind told her not to go.

It was just as she remembered it; nothing had changed. Unsurprising. She didn't expect that her father spent much time in the room to make any kind of alterations. The bed was made. The floor was spotless. A white nightgown was lying on the bed, waiting for Sarah to return. A stack of papers and a pencil lay on the desk against the wall.

A force like a magnet pulled her towards the desk. It was like a picture tauntingly unfinished; Sarah should be there to pick up that pencil and write. More maddeningly, this was where Norberta was certain she had last seen Sarah's diary, write on top of this very stack of blank paper. The desk had been searched many times; the drawers had been pulled completely out and upended, just to be sure there was nothing that was missed. That the diary was not there. Nothing more than pencils and pens and old notebooks had been produced. The diary had left the room, maybe even left the house, but Norberta still could not see how.

Hesitantly, and not knowing what she was hoping to see, she reached out a hand and pulled open one of the desk drawers. Nothing there but pens and pencils and the occasional broken crayon. She reached for a second and rifled through a stack of notebooks. The third produced more of what the first two had had to offer, plus a book of poems that Sarah had been reading. She was setting in on the fourth when her father's voice cut through the air.

"We should get going. Don't want the day to get away from us."

Norberta whipped around, half-expecting to see him right outside the door. Her heart had begun to slow its beating before she realized he was calling from downstairs.

"Berta?" he asked uncertainly.

"Coming," she called back, and her voice sounded weak to her own ears. Thankfully, when she left the room, her father was not in sight. There was nothing wrong with her going into her sister's room, yet somehow she felt as if she'd almost been caught committing some sort of crime.

All through the drive to the hospital, something bothered Norberta. She could not give it a name, but she could swear there was something right in front of her that she was missing.

***So I've been totally dodging editing and that's why this took so long. Sorry about that. But thanks to everyone who voted and commented. I really appreciate it :)***