The next morning arrived with a soft quiet, the kind that felt almost too gentle, too fragile to last. I was in the living room with Marga, guiding her small hands as she colored a new picture. The sunlight streamed in through the curtains, illuminating her golden curls and the faint freckles across her nose.

Then came the knock at the door.

Even before Isabella’s soft voice called out, I knew. Elijah. My chest tightened, a weight pressing against it, though I forced my expression to remain ...