A Son at the Door
His knuckles touched the wood—once, twice.
A soft, firm tap that echoed just enough to break the stillness of the palace corridor.
A heartbeat of silence.
Then a warm voice he knew by soul, not by sound, drifted through the door.
"Who is it?"
Victor felt something inside him steady. His heartbeat slowed, not out of calm, but out of that strange, vulnerable tenderness that only surfaced when he stood in front of this door. Nerves hummed beneath his skin—old, familiar, impossible to shake. Determination settled right beside them, like a quiet shadow urging him forward.
He exhaled once, opened his mouth, and let the words fall.
"…Mom. It's me."
For a moment, he heard movement—soft fabric rustling, a faint exhale, the warm hush of a smile carried through wood.
Then her voice came again, lighter, almost teasingly sweet.
"Ah, my dear. Why stand out there? Come inside."
