Sara Ikari Rodriguez
The sun was still low, casting long shadows across the Rodriguez mansion, when I found myself wandering into the east study. Breakfast had been light. Matio had barely said a word, and I hadn't slept much.
There was too much between us now. Unspoken. Tense. Hopeful.
I wasn't sure if it was the quiet or the golden light, but the room felt sacred. Safe. Books lined the walls, and a dusty scent of wood
polish and old paper lingered in the air. I moved slowly, not really searching for anything—just trying to steady my mind.
Then I saw them.
A row of photo albums stacked neatly on a glass shelf. The leather covers were worn from time, the edges faded like they'd been
touched often.
Something tugged at me, and before I could question it, I reached for the top one.
