I didn’t realize I was clenching my fists until I felt the sting of blood. My nails had bitten deep into my palms.
They climbed into their car—the three of them. Perfect, flawless. A family that didn’t exist for me anymore.
I stayed frozen, watching the taillights fade, feeling as though I’d been buried alive all over again.
My hands shook as I pulled out my phone. I tapped Mara’s name. It took a few tries before the call connected.
When she picked up, my voice barely rose above a whisper.
“Mara… I need you.”
“What is it?” Her voice cut sharply through the line.
For ten years, she had been the only one to visit me, the only person who looked at me without disgust, the only one I could trust.
I drew in a shaky breath. “I want to overturn the verdict. I need to clear my name.”
There was silence. I feared she’d hung up, that she’d given up on me too.
“Clara… I’ve been tracking every lead, gathering evidence. Give me seven more days. Just seven days, and I’ll get you the justice you deserve.”
Something inside me broke. My chest ached—not with pain, but with relief. “Thank you,” I whispered.
When the call ended, I looked around. The streets were empty. Darkness pressed down. I had nowhere to go. No home. No family. No one waiting.
Except him.
And the house we once shared, still holding pieces of my daughter: Isla’s shoes, her drawings, her laughter hidden in the walls.
I walked for hours. My feet bled, went numb, but I kept going.
When I reached the gate, I paused. Damian hadn’t even changed the lock.
My hands trembled as I punched in the code. The door swung open effortlessly.
Inside, it all looked the same—the furniture, the curtains, even the faint smell of home.
Except for one thing: the family photo that had once hung in the living room was gone.
For a moment, I almost believed I had stepped out yesterday and returned today.
Then I heard it: a sound behind me.
My heart froze. I turned.
He was there.
Damian.
Rain dripped from his coat, an umbrella in hand. His dark eyes met mine, unreadable, quiet.
We didn’t speak. We only stared.
I expected Chiara to appear behind him, but she didn’t. He was alone.
After a moment, he set the umbrella aside and spoke softly, “When did you get back? You should’ve called. I would’ve come for you.”
I stayed silent, just watching as he walked to the bathroom like nothing had ever happened, like the past ten years didn’t exist. He returned with a towel, offering it to me.
I didn’t take it.
“I know my way… I came back on my own,” I said.
He didn’t flinch. He poured tea like he always had after long days at the office.
“Drink some hot water. Don’t catch a cold.”
Steam curled from the cup, fogging the space between us. I held it tightly with both hands.
“Damian… shouldn’t we talk about what happened ten years ago?”
“What happened then is done. You’ve served your time. Isn’t that enough? Why dig it up?”
I stared at him, stunned.
Why bother pursuing it?
My daughter was dead. I’d been imprisoned for a crime I didn’t commit. And now, I wasn’t even allowed to ask why.
The room tilted. My vision blurred. I swayed.
“Clara!” His voice cut through the fog.
He rushed forward. For a second, I thought he might care. But then his phone rang.
“Hello?” His voice changed instantly. “Lella’s crying? I’ll be right there.”
That tone dragged me back to when Isla was alive. Damian had always been strict with her. Too strict. He loved her, yes, but he never showed it the way a father should. “Girls should be strong. Don’t cry,” he’d always say.
Even when Isla scraped her knees or hit her head, she bit back tears to earn his praise.
And now, Chiara’s daughter only had to cry once, and he came running.
I gripped the armrest to stay upright, refusing to collapse in front of him.
“I have to go,” he said softly. “Something urgent came up. Rest here. Don’t overthink. Call me if you need anything.”
The door clicked shut, and silence swallowed the house.
I lingered before rising, aching to see Isla’s room, to find a photo album, anything.
When I opened the door, my breath caught.
The room was bare. Completely stripped. Even her drawings on the walls were painted over.
Nothing remained. Not a single trace.
He had erased our child.
I slid down the wall, shaking, letting out a fractured scream that echoed until it faded into nothing.
When I could move again, I went to the master bedroom. My head spun, but I clung to a small hope—maybe Damian had kept something hidden: ballet shoes, a photo. Anything.
I froze.
Everything was exactly as I had left it. My clothes hung in the closet. My perfume sat on the dresser. Sheets folded neatly.
Why erase our daughter but preserve me?
I opened drawers, searching blindly. Then I found it: a box of condoms, freshly opened, tucked in the bedside table.
My stomach twisted.
