Lucian

Ten years isn't just a number. It's layers of dust on forgotten photographs and the habit of looking at the door, knowing it won't open. The name Lucian became a silent ache in the pit of your stomach, especially when you looked at Stella.

She was his reflection, pieced together from fragments. You raised not just a daughter, but a living reminder, a most precious memory.

And there he stands on the threshold. Lucian. But not the one who left. This one—a stranger, polished by success. He was a stranger until his gaze met yours. Behind all that gloss, you saw the same weariness and emptiness.

Before you could say anything, Stella ran out of the living room with a doll and an apple. She froze when she saw the stranger.

He looked at her, and something flickered in his face. He sank to the floor, and now he was just a man who had caught his breath.

Stella hid her face in your skirt and asked:

• Who is this?

He looked up at you, and there was no anger in it, only an all-consuming plea—the plea of ​​a man who is afraid to believe in miracles.

When he spoke, his voice was quiet and cracked:

“Please… ” he paused. “Just tell me she’s mine. Tell me that. Just tell me.”