The morning sunlight streamed through the window, catching the strands of her hair as his arm wrapped around her waist. Their bodies were impossibly close. Too close.

My stomach twisted violently, a cold, sick feeling spreading through me.

Damian glanced up the moment he heard me. His face paled for a heartbeat, but then he forced a calm smile. A bright lipstick stain lingered near his mouth, bold and unapologetic, as if he wanted me to see it. He hadn’t even bothered to wipe it away.

“Chiara… why are you here?” I managed to croak.

Before she could answer, Damian spoke for her. “She just wanted to come by,” he said, voice steady. “She heard you were out. Chiara helped me a lot while you… weren’t around. She visits the cemetery every year, too. Brings flowers, toys, ballet shoes. Takes care of your daughter’s grave.”

My chest constricted. My heartbeat thundered, drowning out every sound around me.

“What did you just say?” I whispered at first, my voice barely audible. Then it rose, uncontrollable. “What right does she have?! What right does she have to go there, to stand at my daughter’s grave?”

My whole body trembled. “No murderer deserves to be there. None.”

Damian didn’t look me in the eyes. His gaze was cast downward, voice quiet. “I already had a ritual performed. The child… she accepted her as her godmother.”

My blood ran cold. My veins felt like they were full of knives. A godmother? That fucking… godmother?

Chiara stepped closer, a bouquet in her hands. “Clara,” she said softly, offering them to me. “These are for you. Congratulations on your new life.”

The scent hit me first—overpowering, cloying, suffocating. My skin crawled, a maddening itch spreading up my arms, along my neck, across my face. Every ounce of her—the way she spoke, smiled, smelled—felt like venom.

I slapped the flowers out of her hands. They tumbled to the floor, petals scattering across the tiles. I didn’t even have the energy to yell. What was the point? They’d already stripped everything from me.

I took a few shaky steps backward, trying to escape the sight of her. And then I heard it: her voice, cutting through the silence.

“0621!”

The call of that number hit me instinctively. My body reacted before my mind caught up. “Here!” I shouted, almost automatically.

I didn’t even realize why I responded until her sharp, mocking laugh followed.

“Oh, Clara,” she giggled, eyes sparkling cruelly. “I’ve heard prisoners react like that. I just wanted to see for myself… a little experiment. Just a joke.”

I turned slowly. Damian stood beside her, hand lightly resting on her arm.

“That’s enough,” he said softly, but firmly. “No more jokes like that.”

Chiara blinked at him and smiled sweetly. “Okay.”

The way they looked at each other made my stomach churn. Even in front of me, they couldn’t stop. Still touching, still flirting, acting like I didn’t exist.

I thought about the box of condoms upstairs. My chest went cold.

---

By evening, I couldn’t take it anymore. I met Mara at a small restaurant. The warm, dim light felt like a tiny comfort in the world that had turned against me.

Her eyes widened as she saw me. “Clara… you look terrible. Why don’t you stay with me for a while?”

I shook my head. “No. I just… I need you to help me find the evidence. Fast.”

She didn’t press me. Instead, she ordered a table full of food, her voice gentle. “Eat something. You look like you haven’t touched a meal in days.”

I barely managed to lift a spoon when I froze.

Chiara had entered. And with her, the little girl—dressed perfectly, smiling like she owned the room. My heart seized when I saw the child. I couldn’t look away.

Of course, Chiara noticed. She drew the girl close, her voice loud and deliberate.

“Lella, be good. Understand? There’s a murderer here. She killed her own child. If you misbehave, the police might take you away, too.”

I froze in place, my throat tightening.

Then she turned, her eyes locking on mine, smiling that poisonous smile. “Clara… ten years have passed. Are you still comfortable eating out here?”

The restaurant fell into an unnatural silence. Every gaze in the room landed on me, piercing, judging.

Whispers slithered through the air.

“That’s her?”

“She killed her daughter?”

“She doesn’t look insane…”

Their words cut sharper than any physical wound. Ten years in prison hadn’t freed me. The moment the world learned what I supposedly did, they turned. Made me eat off the floor, clean up after them, take beatings that tore my skin raw. Every “child killer” hurled at me made me wish I could disappear.

And even now, hearing her voice, I began to tremble. My throat burned, my hands shook.

Then Mara’s voice snapped through the tension—sharp, furious. “Chiara! You’re the murderer!”

Before I could even think, I flung a glass of water right at Chiara’s face. The liquid splashed across her, drenching her hair and coat. She gasped, staggering backward, while her daughter Lella began wailing beside her.

That was the moment the door swung open.

A tall figure stepped in, his voice slicing through the chaos like a blade. “What’s going on here?”

Damian. Of course. He always seemed to appear at the exact moment she needed rescuing.

The instant he entered, Chiara’s expression shifted. Her eyes reddened, and she clutched her daughter as if the world had wronged her, trembling violently.

“I just wanted to take Clara out for dinner,” she stammered, her voice quivering. “I don’t even know what I did wrong. She got angry and… and told someone to hurt my child…”

The little girl pointed directly at me, sobbing, “Bad woman! You bully my mom! I hate you! I hate you! You killed your own child!”

I froze. My throat constricted so tightly I could barely breathe. Before I could respond, Damian’s face darkened. He stepped between us, his posture protective, as though I were the threat.

“You’ve had a child before, Clara!” His words sliced through me like ice. “Why can’t you show even a little kindness to another one?”

The blow hit harder than any slap could.

Yes, I’d had a child—my baby, my little girl who used to squeal with delight whenever Damian tossed her in the air. The girl he once cradled so gently, placing soft kisses on my forehead and whispering, “Thank you for completing my life.”

And then he destroyed everything.

Voices rose behind him.

“Isn’t that Clara? The one who went to prison?”

“She used to boast about being a brilliant doctor. Couldn’t even save her own kid.”

“Imagine… killing your own daughter. What a monster.”

I looked up to see a few of his colleagues entering, their eyes fixed on me. I didn’t try to defend myself; why bother? Words were meaningless.

Damian’s voice dropped to a cold, sharp edge. “Go home. Stop making a scene.”

Chiara smoothed her dress, wiped her tears, and began greeting his colleagues as if she were the lady of the house.

I grabbed Mara by the wrist before she could speak, pulling her toward the exit. I said nothing. My face was numb.

As we left, I caught Damian’s gaze flicker toward me. For a brief moment, something like humanity, maybe regret, passed over his expression as he glimpsed the scars on my arms. But he stayed silent.

After dropping Mara off, I bought balloons, candles, and small toys, then hailed a taxi to the cemetery.

---

When I finally saw the grave, my knees nearly buckled beneath me.

Weeds had overtaken the area. The soil was cracked and neglected. No one had visited—not even once.

Then I noticed it.

Two words, scrawled in red paint across the tombstone: bastard.

I froze, my chest tightening, vision blurring. I stumbled forward, rubbing frantically at the paint with my bare hands, crying out her name. “No… no… no…”

The paint refused to budge. It blended with my blood, turning the word darker, sharper, more grotesque.

I scrubbed until my palms split open. Until I gasped for air. Until I fell to my knees and screamed into the sky.

Then the rain came—cold, relentless, soaking me to the bone.

I don’t know how long I stayed there, crying, screaming, scrubbing. When I finally stopped, the sky had dulled to gray. I set to work: replacing the tombstone, clearing the weeds, wiping mud from her photo, arranging the toys neatly at her feet.

My voice shook as I whispered, “Mom will make them pay… all of them.”

By the time I returned home, dawn was beginning to break.

The door hadn’t even fully closed when Damian’s voice echoed from the living room. “Didn’t I tell you to stay home? Where have you been? I called all night! Do you even understand—”

He cut off abruptly as I walked past him without a glance.

“Today… is our daughter’s death anniversary,” I said quietly.

Before I could move further, darkness swallowed me.

When I came to, a soft, weary voice reached me. Maybe it was him.

“Clara… I’m sorry.”

Then a harsh, insistent ringing cut through the haze.

I opened my eyes. The room was empty. It had all been a dream.

The phone kept buzzing. My hands trembled as I grabbed it.

When I heard Mara’s voice, my chest tightened painfully.

“Clara,” she said, voice trembling but bright with urgency. “I found it. I found proof. Chiara… she was the one who killed your daughter.”