Aurora's POV
I always believed the truth would set me free. I didn’t know it could also break me.
The clinic room is too small for everything pressing inside my chest. White walls. One narrow bed. A flickering light is buzzing above us like it’s nervous, too.
My shoulder burns beneath the bandage, each pulse sharp and hot, but the pain barely registers. At the moment, I am too busy watching my father fall apart in front of me.
He was sitting across from me, his shoulders slumped, while his hands clasped so tightly his knuckles had turned white.
My father had never looked this old. For years, I thought he was made of stone—silent, distant, unmovable.
But tonight, he looks like glass, cracked in too many places to count.
“Aurora,” he says softly.
My name trembles when he says it.
