Dante did not sleep after the result.
He returned to his penthouse because there was nowhere else to go and because the building staff knew how not to ask questions. The apartment was immaculate, silent, and absurdly large. Its windows framed the city like a possession. Its furniture had been chosen by a designer who understood wealth better than comfort. Nothing in it suggested a child had ever existed in the world.
No toy beneath a table.No small cup near the sink.No drawing taped crookedly to a wall.
Dante stood in the middle of the living room with the signed statement on the table and felt the emptiness accuse him.
Noah was his son.
The sentence repeated until it no longer sounded like language, only impact.
At dawn, he opened old photo albums stored digitally by the family arch
