“I don’t give Him names,” she whispered.
“I just know that today… you’ll see again.”
A few meters away, a man watched with clenched fists.
Richard Bennett, Noah’s father—billionaire, strategist, master of control—stood beside a closed bookstall, heart pounding. He always watched from afar, believing distance was protection.
When the girl sat beside his son, panic rose in his chest.
No one ever came close.
He slid his hand inside his coat, ready to call security.
On the bench, Clara slowly raised her hand.
“May I?” she asked.
Noah swallowed.
“What are you going to do?”
“Take off your glasses.”
With shaking fingers, he obeyed.
His eyes were clouded, veiled in a pale, milky haze.
Clara leaned closer, unafraid of the cold, of the impossible.
“Trust me,” she whispered.
And somehow… he did.
Her fingertips brushed his eye—no pain, no heat. Just a strange sensation, like something loosening. Slowly, delicately, she peeled away a thin translucent film.
It shimmered like frozen breath in sunlight.
She repeated the motion on the other eye.
Two fragile veils lay in her palms, glowing softly against the snow.
“I… I see light,” Noah whispered.
“Shapes. Clara… I see you.”
“What are you doing to my son?!”