Chapter 3 The Memory Palace

The next two weeks passed in a blur of legal documents, tense negotiations, and Lily's increasingly pointed questions about her newfound father. Nathaniel had been surprisingly reasonable in his initial custody demands—one dinner per week, one weekend day—but I remained wary. Men like Nathaniel Thorn didn't compromise without an agenda.

I'd expected him to send his driver for their first official dinner. Instead, he knocked on our door precisely at 6 PM, dressed in what I assumed was his version of casual: tailored charcoal slacks and a black cashmere sweater that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe.

Lily, excited about her "special dinner," had insisted on wearing her favorite sparkly unicorn dress with mismatched socks—one purple, one yellow. I'd been prepared to fight Nathaniel if he tried to change her outfit, but he simply offered his hand and told her she looked "very creative."

They returned three hours later, Lily chattering about the restaurant's aquarium and how "Daddy ordered in French." The word "Daddy" still felt like a knife twist, but I forced a smile.

"Did you have a nice time?" I asked, helping her out of her coat.

"We had crème brûlée," Lily announced. "Daddy let me crack the top with a special spoon."

Nathaniel stood awkwardly in our doorway, not entering. "She behaved perfectly."

"Did you expect otherwise?"

His expression remained neutral. "I have limited experience with children."

"Yet you're fighting for custody of one."

"She's not just any child. She's my daughter." His gaze shifted to Lily, who was showing her stuffed penguin the dessert menu she'd brought home. "She's extraordinary."

On that, at least, we agreed.

After three such dinners and a Saturday at the Museum of Natural History, Nathaniel requested to host Lily at his apartment across the hall. I reluctantly agreed but insisted on a brief inspection first.

His apartment was exactly what I expected: minimalist, expensive, and completely unsuitable for a child. Sharp-edged furniture. Glass coffee table. White upholstery.

"This is a lawsuit waiting to happen," I muttered, eyeing a sculpture with particularly dangerous-looking angles.

"I've childproofed the electrical outlets and secured the cabinets," he replied stiffly.

"And what about entertainment? Do you expect her to read The Wall Street Journal?"

His jaw tightened. "I've prepared appropriate activities."

To my surprise, he had. One corner of his living room had been transformed with a small table and chair, art supplies (washable markers only, I noted), and a bookshelf filled with children's classics.

When Lily arrived, however, she ignored these careful preparations and made a beeline for the black lacquered box on his coffee table.

"What's this?" she asked, already opening it before either of us could stop her.

"Lily, don't touch other people's—" I began.

"It's fine," Nathaniel interrupted. "It's a Go set. A Japanese strategic board game."

Lily was already examining the smooth black and white stones. "Like chess?"

"Similar in complexity, though the objective is different." Nathaniel knelt beside her. "You control territory rather than capturing pieces."

I expected her to lose interest immediately. Instead, she looked up at him with his own gray eyes and asked, "Will you teach me?"

Something shifted in Nathaniel's expression—a softening I hadn't seen before. "Of course."

I left them to their game, retreating to our apartment with strict instructions that Lily was to return by 8 PM for bedtime. When my phone rang at 7:30, I assumed it was Nathaniel confirming the schedule.

Instead, his voice was tight. "You should come over."

"Is something wrong? Is Lily hurt?"

"No. Just come."

I rushed across the hall to find Lily sitting cross-legged on the floor, the Go board between her and Nathaniel. But instead of playing the game conventionally, she had arranged the white stones to spell out two words: GO AWAY.

"Oh my god," I whispered.

Nathaniel's face was a mask of control, but I could see the tension in his shoulders. "She's been doing this for the past hour. Every time I reset the board, she spells it out again."

I knelt beside Lily. "Sweetheart, that's not how the game is played."

"I don't want to play his game." Her voice was small but determined. "I want to go home."

"We are home. Just across the hall."

"No." She looked up at me, her eyes filling with tears. "Our real home. Before he came."

The silence that followed was deafening. I glanced at Nathaniel, expecting anger, but his expression was unreadable.

"I'll take her back to our apartment," I said quietly.

He nodded once, still staring at the message spelled out in white stones. As I gathered Lily's things, he remained motionless, a statue in his perfect, empty home.

Later that night, after I'd put Lily to bed with extra stories and reassurance, a text message arrived from Nathaniel: *We need to talk. Tomorrow. 8 PM.*

I replied with a simple *OK*, then spent the rest of the evening researching child psychologists. Lily's reaction worried me. While I had my own reservations about Nathaniel's sudden appearance in our lives, I didn't want her carrying the burden of my anxieties.

The next day passed in a haze of work and worry. By the time I knocked on Nathaniel's door that evening (Mrs. Rodriguez from downstairs watching Lily), I was exhausted.

He opened the door looking equally tired, the perfect tailoring of his shirt unable to hide the tension in his frame. For once, there was no cool façade, no calculated charm. He simply stepped aside to let me enter.

"Drink?" he offered, moving to a bar cart that probably cost more than my medical school tuition.

"No, thank you." I sat on the edge of his pristine sofa. "What did you want to discuss?"

He poured himself two fingers of amber liquid before joining me, maintaining a careful distance. "Lily's behavior yesterday suggests she's uncomfortable with our arrangement."

"She's adjusting. It's a big change."

"She spelled 'go away' in three different configurations. That's not adjustment, that's a message."

I sighed. "What do you propose?"

"I've hired a child psychologist specializing in family transitions. Dr. Helen Fraser. She's the best in her field."

Of course he had. Nathaniel never settled for second best.

"I appreciate the thought, but Lily already has a pediatrician who—"

"Who isn't qualified in child psychology relating to parental introduction," he interrupted. "This isn't about your pride, Clara. It's about what's best for Lily."

"Don't lecture me about what's best for her," I snapped. "I've been her only parent for four years while you were building security systems and avoiding emotional attachments."

His fingers tightened around his glass. "That was your choice, not mine."

"Was it? 'Marriage and children are inefficient emotional liabilities.' Your words, framed on your office wall."

Something flashed in his eyes—surprise, then understanding. "You saw that."

"Hard to miss. It was right above your desk."

He set down his glass with deliberate care. "That was a quote from my uncle Richard, who raised me after my parents died. He had it framed as a reminder of the Thorn family philosophy." A muscle worked in his jaw. "I kept it as a reminder of what I didn't want to become."

The admission stunned me into silence. For five years, I'd justified my decision with the memory of that framed declaration, never considering there might be another explanation.

"You still could have told me," he continued, his voice low. "You had no right to keep her from me."

"I tried to call you," I admitted. "Three times. Your assistant said you weren't taking personal calls, only business matters."

"So you gave up."

"I made a choice to protect my child from someone who I believed didn't want her."

He stood abruptly, pacing to the window that overlooked the Brooklyn Bridge. "And now? Do you still think that?"

I studied his rigid posture, the controlled way he held himself. "I think you want what you think belongs to you. I'm just not convinced you understand what being a father actually means."

"Then help me understand." He turned to face me, and for a brief moment, his mask slipped. "I never had a father, not really. Mine was... absent even when present."

Before I could respond, a scream shattered the tense moment—a child's scream from across the hall. Lily.

We both moved at once, racing out the door. I fumbled with my keys, hands shaking, but Nathaniel simply placed his palm against my electronic lock, which immediately clicked open. I'd deal with that violation later.

Lily was thrashing in her bed, still asleep but clearly in the grip of a nightmare. "No, no, don't go down there," she whimpered. "The snake man is waiting."

I rushed to her, gathering her small body against mine. "Shh, baby, it's okay. Mommy's here."

Her eyes flew open, wild and unfocused. "The basement is bad. Don't let him lock it!"

I froze, those words chillingly familiar. Across the room, Nathaniel had gone completely still, his face drained of color.

Lily's breathing gradually slowed as she recognized me, her small fingers clutching my shirt. "Mom?"

"I'm here, sweetheart. Just a bad dream."

"There was a man with a snake ring," she murmured, already drifting back toward sleep. "He was hurting someone in a dark room."

I stroked her hair until her breathing deepened, then carefully extricated myself. Nathaniel remained frozen by the door, his expression haunted.

"She's never had nightmares like this before," I said quietly as we stepped into the hallway.

"It's not possible," he muttered, more to himself than to me.

"What's not possible?"

His eyes met mine, and for the first time since I'd known him, Nathaniel Thorn looked genuinely shaken. "Those details. The basement. The snake ring. She couldn't know those things."

"Know what things, Nathaniel?"

He seemed to struggle internally before answering. "When I was eight, I was kidnapped and held in a basement for three months. The man who orchestrated it wore a snake ring."

The clinical part of my brain immediately cataloged this as potential post-traumatic stress, possibly explaining his control issues and emotional detachment. The mother in me simply felt a wave of horror.

"I'm sorry," I said softly. "That's terrible."

"It was thirty years ago." His voice was flat, controlled again. "The point is, there's no way Lily could know those details."

"Unless..." I hesitated, uncertain how he would react to what I was about to suggest. "Have you heard of genetic memory? It's controversial, but some studies suggest trauma can affect DNA expression in ways that might be inherited."

"You're suggesting she inherited my memories?"

"Not exactly. More like... emotional echoes. Fragments." I glanced back at Lily's room. "It would explain the nightmares, her reaction to you."

Nathaniel's analytical mind seemed to be processing this possibility, turning it over like one of his Go stones. "I need to research this further."

Typical. When faced with emotional complexity, retreat to data and research.

"It's late," I said. "We should continue this conversation another time."

He nodded, already distant again, the brief vulnerability gone. As he turned to leave, he paused. "I'm still scheduling the appointment with Dr. Fraser. I'll text you the details."

"Fine. But I'll be present for all sessions."

"Of course." He hesitated, then added, "Thank you for letting me be part of tonight. With the nightmare."

The simple gratitude caught me off guard. "She's your daughter too."

Something shifted in his expression—a softening that reminded me, just for a moment, of the man I'd met five years ago. The man who'd talked about constellation myths on a hotel balcony and laughed when I'd gotten whipped cream on my nose at dinner.

Before I could examine that memory too closely, he was gone, the door closing softly behind him.

I returned to Lily's bedside, watching her peaceful sleep and wondering what other connections might exist between father and daughter beyond gray eyes and an extraordinary memory.

In her sleep, Lily murmured something that sounded like "chess pieces can't swim," a nonsensical sleep phrase that nevertheless sent a chill down my spine. Because earlier that evening, I'd glimpsed a photograph on Nathaniel's side table—a young boy, perhaps eight years old, holding a chess trophy. The child version of Nathaniel, standing on a dock by a lake.

Just before the kidnapping that would change him forever.