Jade is the eldest daughter of Constantine van der Gros. For whatever reason, her existence has been purged from memory, stricken from all records and condemned to non-existence. It is impossible to talk to or interrogate Constantine or even his wife Patricia because neither of them will dare to open their mouths about the subject. It's impossible to get them to admit it; to admit what could only ever be the ostensible wrong-doing on their parts that must have led to her death. She is assuredly dead, mind you: her room was the guest room on the third floor of the van der Gros villa. It's the guest room now, but it wasn't always that way. Nobody remembered it like that, but then suddenly, one day, over a decade ago, a new charade is born. This was always the guest room for the guests that we never have over, and even when we do have guests over, they are never permitted to enter this room. Constantine goes in all the time. Sometimes, even Patricia goes inside. Nothing ever leaves it, though, which begs the horrific thought that, maybe, Jade is imprisoned within. Fortunately, this idea was never very feasible, as the motions of either the woman herself or the fetters that restrain her would definitely be audible; no food or drink is ever available to the room either, so unless the room exists specifically as a bizarre, twisted mausoleum in a very literal sense--that a corpse is interred within--then she is not there anymore. Jade is thus missing. It is as if she is missing from reality itself; that she died; that her death was hid, obfuscated, as if the nature of the death itself was something to never be thought of again in living memory. Constantine is hiding her death. Constantine is hiding her. Unfortunately for him, he is not very good at it, and has--like a beast having devoured someone alive--allowed the messy remains, the trace evidence of eating, to linger on uncleaned.

I remember her face. It was a little bit like mine. I was a small, toddling child, so regrettably even my own recollection has left me woefully bereft of her; but, she was like me. Her eyes were dark like mine; her face gashed along the cheeks by unwanted birthright, unrepaired by loathesome surgery; it was so soft and so gentle, her visage, that I was soothed by it, by her presence. Her voice was dark and low. I remember her. I remember Jade. She lived on the third floor, in the untouched and barred room, accessible only by Constantine's key. I can remember her and nothing will make me forget her. I will die before I forget her, and I will not allow myself to die.