Lyse was taken aback and she looked at the refined old lady with pearls in her ears, silvery white hair and kind eyes. "I am sorry but I am not Maeve," she replied, a bit confused. "I don't think we have met before."
The woman seemed oblivious to Lyse's denial and she came closer and looked fondly at Lyse. "Of course you are, dear," she insisted. "You have your father's eyes."
Lyse tried to explain once more, but the woman was adamant. She began to ramble, her voice growing louder and more agitated. "Where have you been all of these years? Your poor father, he missed you so much that he died of heartbreak."
Lyse felt a pang of pity for the elderly woman. It was clear that she was suffering from some form of dementia and this was simply a case of mistaken identity. She tried to gently disengage herself for the woman's hold, but the woman clung to her arm, her grip surprisingly strong.
