Mirela's sobs echoed through the quiet house, each tear carrying the weight of years she had refused to confront. Her shoulders shook violently as she pressed her hands to her face, clutching at the grief that now had no place to hide. The room, once filled with voices and intention, now felt like a hollow stage left to its lone actor—a mother finally letting herself mourn.
Luke, Ilyrana, and Falkner exchanged a silent glance. As if bound by unspoken agreement, they each stepped away from the dining table, their movements gentle and slow, not to disturb Mirela's fragile state. It wasn't a moment that needed words; it required distance.
They made their way toward the main door, Falkner walking beside Luke, whose expression was heavy with thought. Falkner slid a hand into his pocket, glancing back toward the dining table where Mirela sat, broken yet finally beginning to heal.
"So… do you think she's treated now?" Falkner's voice was low, almost hesitant.
