Dad?"
The word came out in a whisper, almost as if saying it too loud would shatter the fragile image in front of her.
Aurora's chest tightened. Her hands clutched the bedsheets, trembling. For a moment, everything around her slowed—the ticking of the wall clock, the heavy breath of Rafael beside her, even the rain pounding the windows. Her heart, however, raced violently in her chest.
The man standing in the doorway didn't speak at first. He just stared at her like she was a ghost—like he was the one seeing someone rise from the dead.
"I—I don't understand," Aurora stammered. "You're supposed to be dead."
"I know," the man said hoarsely. "And for the last eight years, I let you believe that."
Her stomach twisted. "Why?"
Behind her, Rafael was silent. His hand slid across her lower back, as if to comfort—or remind her he was still in control. Still watching.
Her father stepped forward, slowly, like approaching a wounded animal.
