Disclaimer: Who would actually let me own a series? I don't even know what I'm doing half the time.

"I know this sounds crazy and you probably don't believe me," I explain. "But it's true."

Silence. Then more silence. And what's that!—oh, more silence.

"I'm sorry—"

It had to come at some point.

"I don't think you have the right person—" She stops mid-sentence.

She stares like she's remembering something.

Oh no, please don't stare. I got enough of that back home.

I avert my eyes to my fingers. They're trembling and fumbling over each other like always. It's a nervous habit but whatever helps, ya know?

"Come in." She steps behind the door, opening it wider.

Oh. Well this is surprising. For a good while it seemed like we were going to stand out here forever, maybe turn into statues or something?

Bringing the rolling suitcase inside, I pull the door closed behind me. Martha's already on the move down the hall. I put my things down and follow.

Picture frames crowd the hallway walls. Kids in most, doing different things. Martha's in a couple—cooking or smiling or in the background. They're wonderful, though. Every single one.

We come into the kitchen. Like everything in the house I've seen so far, the kitchen's small and a bit old. Martha sits down at one end of the table and gestures for me to sit next to her.

"What was your name again?"

"Maria, uh Takanashi."

She sighs and glances at the ceiling. "I figured so."

"So…" I'm hesitant to say anything. "You know then?"

"That you're Anastasia's daughter?" She laughs. I can tell it's an unhappy one. "I wanna kick myself for not realizing it sooner."

I don't know what to say. Well I do,but I don't want to. Do I have to use the band-aid method again?

She takes a calm sip of her tea and sighs once more. "Something happened," she states more than asks.

With a nod, I say, "Something terrible." Then and there, she's struck with certainty and grief all at the same time.

All I can think is: I've been there, too. Every night for the past two months.

She doesn't cry, but she chokes up. Not seeing someone for so many years and then one day, you get the news.

It feels like a slap to the face. A cold, hard one served to you by good ol' Reality.

You can always hope and wish they're doing the best they can, but the mind thinks of what's worse long before it actually happens.

She has to clear her throat an odd number of times. And even then, her voice is still hoarse. "How are you?"

I give her the same answer I've recited thousands of times. "Good."

"Are you—"

"I've actually come to ask you something," I say quickly. She nods. "You see, for the past two months I've been staying at an inn, using money my mom left for me, but…"

She doesn't stop me or anything. I just can't finish.

I have to constantly remind myself to inhale and exhale. Sometimes when I'm too caught up with over thinking, whether it be conversation related or useless mind-boggling things, I forget to do the simplest of actions. I've gone hours without eating before and have spent days just laying in bed.

Breathing is a high contender, though.

"You don't even have to ask," she says, placing a hand over mine, "you can stay as long as you like."

"Are you sure? I'm sure you've got many mouths to feed as is. I wouldn't want to be in the way."

She gives a firm squeeze to my hand before getting up. "I'll show you to your room." And she's off like the wind again.

I go back to grab my things and come back down the hall to find her by the stairs.

"Now, you've got to understand that I've got rules here."

"Of course," I say behind her.

We reach the second level and walk past a few doors, all of which have a sign saying either NO GIRLS ALLOWED or NO BOYS ALLOWED.

"Breakfast at eight. Lights out at eight, nine on weekends." I nod and give a couple mhmm's to let her know I understand. "I'm not expecting you to get used to everything right away, so don't worry if it takes a few days."

"I'll try my best," I smile.

She smiles back and pulls a key out of her pocket. Facing a door—it was probably white once upon a time but now it's a pale yellow—she unlocks it.

It swings open gently, revealing five or six stairs. I look to her and all she does is gesture for me to go in.

They creak under my weight. Six stairs later, I'm acquainted with what looks to be an attic transformed into a room. A bed by the window, a nightstand next to it, and a bookshelf over next to the closet are the only things up here.

Martha says something as I'm looking around so I ask her to say it again: "This was your mother's room when she lived with me."

I'm not at all shocked, however. Mom was never a fan of anything that wasn't a bare necessity. She had once told me that if you needed anything other than people you love, a comfy place to live, and food to eat, then you were living life all wrong.

It always confused me when she said stuff like that. Now I guess I understand why.

"It should be clean, if you're worried about that."

It never crossed my mind, to be honest.

"Do you come up here often, then?"

"Every now and then. Just to take a look at things."

She must be lying. For just a simple every now and then visit, this room's pretty clean. Or maybe her last visit was as of recent, who knows. I prefer not to think the worst of people.

Since pushing the matter would be incredibly rude, I continue looking around.

Martha puts a hand on my shoulder, turning me around. I'm completely off guard when she pulls me in for a hug. But I don't reject. She needs it.

We both do.

She's the first to pull away and, with a hearty sigh, says, "I'm glad you're here, Maria."

I want to say something, anything. But I'm also tired and want to be alone, so I stay silent and wait for her to finish.

"Well," she hesitates, "morning comes quicker than you'd think. Get some sleep."

She walks out before I can tell her the same.

I make sure she's gone before doing anything, and then go put my shoes by the door. I lay on the bed and stare at the ceiling.

I'm a bit afraid to start. "So," I say, "Martha seems nice. She's letting me stay—and it's in your old bedroom."

I turn my head to the window. A lone lamppost illuminates a spot on the sidewalk.

"I'm not going to keep you too long. I'll try and do what she says, try to get some sleep."

It's a while before I say anything else. I've rolled onto my stomach, face smashed against a pillow. With half closed eyes, I mutter, more to myself than to her, "I just really hope being here helps me be happy again, Mom."

I love Martha. Didn't give her enough credit in the series.

TTFN