I scrambled to my feet, my eyes scanning every corner of the dusty, suffocating apartment. Fear clawed at my chest, but desperation gave me purpose. I needed to get out. I needed to survive — for myself, for my unborn child, and for Ethan.
My eyes landed on an old wooden box tucked under a rickety table. I rushed over, dust clouding the air as I pulled it into the light. It creaked open with a hesitant groan, and inside was a small collection of forgotten things: a leather-bound diary, a picture frame wrapped in yellowing cloth, some keys on a rusted ring, and a bundle of old clothes — including tiny, delicate newborn garments.
My hands trembled as I reached for the photo. Peeling the cloth away, my breath caught in my throat. My parents — my parents — stood in the corner of the image,
