I spun around and found Sofia standing perfectly still at the edge of the gravel path. After eleven years of marriage, I knew her appearance by heart—soft blue blouse, eyes marked by that familiar trace of exhaustion—yet seeing her then sent a cold shiver down my spine. Her composure seemed unnatural, almost unsettling considering what was happening.

“Vincent?” she whispered, her eyes moving from my face to Lila, and finally settling on the young boy beside us.

The instant she looked at him, the small amount of calm she had left disappeared. It lasted only a moment—a slight tightening of her shoulders, her fingers gripping Lila’s yellow sunhat a little more firmly—but I noticed it. The boy visibly flinched and cautiously stepped backward into the shade.

“It’s you,” Sofia breathed, her voice barely more than a whisper.

A deep sense of dread swept over me. I looked from my wife to the child, and the realization struck me immediately. “Sofia… do you know who this boy is?” I demanded.

She went still, uncertainty spreading across her face. But before she could answer, Lila spoke up, turning toward the sound of her mother’s voice. “Mommy, is that you?”

The sharp suspicion I felt wavered. Lila had no idea about the suffocating tension around us, completely unaware that I was examining her mother as though she were someone I had never met before.

Sofia quickly moved toward us and knelt beside our daughter. “I’m right here, my darling,” she whispered, gently kissing Lila’s forehead. “You left your hat behind.”

“I don’t want to wear it anymore,” Lila answered quietly.

“You picked it out yourself, sweetie,” Sofia reminded her gently.

“I picked it when I could still see the color yellow,” Lila said softly.

Those innocent words struck me with unexpected force. Sofia squeezed her eyes shut for a brief moment, a flash of raw pain crossing her face before she pulled our little girl tightly against her. As I watched, the hurt in her expression looked completely genuine. It didn’t erase my suspicion, but it certainly didn’t resemble the face of a mother deliberately taking away her own child’s sight.

Sensing the tension unfolding around him, the boy had already begun backing toward the trees.

“Wait a second,” I called firmly.

The boy stopped.

Sofia gave me a worried look. “Vincent, please, you’re going to frighten him!”

“I only want him to stay here for a moment,” I replied.

Inside, the old instincts of Vincent Moretti began stirring again—the man who dealt with disorder by taking complete control of everyone around him. But I consciously pushed that part of myself down. Not in front of Lila. Not now.

I relaxed my posture and took a small step toward him. “What’s your name, son?”

The boy looked uncertainly from Sofia to me before swallowing hard. “Eli,” he said quietly.

“It’s okay, Eli,” I assured him, keeping my voice gentle and steady. “Nobody is angry with you.”