“Arvin Deutche,” the man introduced himself, his voice deep but uncertain. Then, almost as if the name itself felt wrong, he corrected,
“Or rather… Arvin Petrov.” He extended his hand toward the woman standing across from him.
“Leila Winters,” she replied softly, her voice trembling as she accepted his hand. The handshake was brief—polite, hesitant, and heavy with unspoken questions neither dared to voice.
The air between them thickened with awkwardness. They stood there, two strangers bound by a past they could not remember and a truth that neither fully grasped. Yet, unseen but powerfully present, something tied them together—a daughter who carried the echoes of both their souls.
Freya watched them from a few steps away, her pulse pounding in her ears. Her gaze lingered on Arvin Deu
