Chapter 5 - Elena
I pushed the bedroom door open gently.
The room was small and clean, lit by the pale winter light filtering through a single lace curtain. The walls were covered with small watercolor sketches—portraits of the harbor, bridges, and tiny figures walking along the water.
In the narrow bed against the far wall lay Elena.
She looked fragile. Her dark hair was fanned out across a white pillow, her skin translucent, her cheekbones sharp. A small oxygen concentrator hummed quietly beside the nightstand.
Lily was sitting on the edge of the mattress, holding her mother’s hand, whispering something into her ear.
Elena opened her eyes slowly. She turned her head toward the doorway.
When her eyes landed on me, she stopped breathing for three full seconds.
“Dominic?” her voice was barely a whisper, dry and raspy.
I walked over to the bed, my heavy boots making no sound on the worn rug, and sank down onto the wooden chair beside her.
“Elena,” I said softly.
Tears welled in the corners of her dark eyes, slipping slowly down her pale cheeks. She looked at me, then looked down at Lily, who was watching us both with intense curiosity.
“You found us,” Elena murmured.
“Lily found me,” I corrected her, offering a small, sad smile. “She saved my life in a warehouse on Pier 19 an hour ago.”
Elena let out a soft, shuddering breath, her fingers tightening around Lily’s small hand.
“She has your eyes, Dominic,” Elena whispered. “She has your stubbornness. I tried... I tried so hard to protect her from your world. I was so afraid if they knew who her father was, they would use her against you.”
The word hit me like a physical blow.
Father.
I looked at Lily. She was staring at me, her mouth slightly open, her mind putting together the pieces of a puzzle she had been carrying her entire life without knowing it.
“You’re... my dad?” Lily asked quietly.
I looked at the girl who had cut my ropes with a rusty strip of metal, who had carried copper wire through the fog to buy milk, who carried the same crescent scar on her hand as mine.
“Yes, Lily,” I said, my voice cracking despite every effort to hold it steady. “I am.”
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She didn't cry. She didn't scream. She simply leaned forward, reached out her small hand, and placed it over mine—the two identical crescent scars aligning perfectly under the pale morning light.
“Good,” Lily said plainly. “Then we don't have to sell the copper.”
