After dropping Mara off, I bought balloons, candles, and small toys, then hailed a taxi to the cemetery.
---
When I finally saw the grave, my knees nearly buckled beneath me.
Weeds had overtaken the area. The soil was cracked and neglected. No one had visited—not even once.
Then I noticed it.
Two words, scrawled in red paint across the tombstone: bastard.
I froze, my chest tightening, vision blurring. I stumbled forward, rubbing frantically at the paint with my bare hands, crying out her name. “No… no… no…”
The paint refused to budge. It blended with my blood, turning the word darker, sharper, more grotesque.
I scrubbed until my palms split open. Until I gasped for air. Until I fell to my knees and screamed into the sky.
Then the rain came—cold, relentless, soaking me to the bone.
I don’t know how long I stayed there, crying, screaming, scrubbing. When I finally stopped, the sky had dulled to gray. I set to work: replacing the tombstone, clearing the weeds, wiping mud from her photo, arranging the toys neatly at her feet.
My voice shook as I whispered, “Mom will make them pay… all of them.”
By the time I returned home, dawn was beginning to break.
The door hadn’t even fully closed when Damian’s voice echoed from the living room. “Didn’t I tell you to stay home? Where have you been? I called all night! Do you even understand—”
He cut off abruptly as I walked past him without a glance.
“Today… is our daughter’s death anniversary,” I said quietly.
Before I could move further, darkness swallowed me.
When I came to, a soft, weary voice reached me. Maybe it was him.
“Clara… I’m sorry.”
Then a harsh, insistent ringing cut through the haze.
I opened my eyes. The room was empty. It had all been a dream.
The phone kept buzzing. My hands trembled as I grabbed it.
When I heard Mara’s voice, my chest tightened painfully.
“Clara,” she said, voice trembling but bright with urgency. “I found it. I found proof. Chiara… she was the one who killed your daughter.”
