Maria hadn't changed much. Same soft smile. Same wide eyes, though now rimmed red and hollowed out by tears. There was something cracked about her, not quite broken, but splintered, like a glass ornament too delicate for this place.
And then there was Isabella. Her smile. His stomach lurched. She had her mother's eyes. Mara's smile. "Thank you for coming, Ethan," Maria said, her voice a whisper against the weight of the place.
He nodded, forcing a smile like a man trying on a suit he never planned to buy. "Hey," he murmured, kneeling a little to face the toddler. "And you must be Isabella."
The little girl grinned, a toothy thing, and Ethan felt something in him twist. He couldn't stop it, the memory of that night, sharp and unwelcome, slicing through the present like a jagged knife.
"Why are you here, Maria?" he asked, his voice rough. "What happened? Tell me everything and I'll… I'll fix it." Maria shook her head, clutching Isabella a little tighter.
