The street outside was lit with flashing red and blue, not festive, not celebratory—just the harsh truth of consequences arriving. A black car pulled up hard, door opening before it fully stopped.
My father stepped out, coat thrown over whatever he’d been wearing, hair uncombed, face older than I remembered and more human than the world ever saw. When he reached my stretcher, his hands shook as he took mine.
“Anna,” he said, voice breaking. “I’ve got you.”
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I thought I could do it alone.”
“Hush,” he said, bending to kiss my forehead. “You’re safe.”
Months later, the garden at my father’s estate was bright with spring—air soft, flowers open, the world pretending it had never been cruel. My body healed slowly. The deeper wound didn’t. Some losses don’t close; they become part of the shape of you.