Pedaling home on her bicycle after an unusual morning, Andromeda wheeled it into the garage of her townhome and stepped inside. The house exuded elegance with its decor, but none of it bore her personal touch.
Her fingers traced the wooden banister as she ascended the stairs, passing framed photographs of her and her father—or more accurately, her father alone with her lurking in the background. It struck her then, the absence of any picture where she took center stage. If she appeared, she hid behind others or obscured her face, the smiles plastered on her lips unconvincing.
Surveying the house, Andromeda realized there was little to indicate it was her home. No traces of her accomplishments or personal effects adorned the walls. It was as if she existed only in the shadows, a mere spectator in her own life.
