“...what can I do — even a little — to soften that?”
I didn’t blink.
“Nothing.”
The answer came immediately.
“Absolutely nothing.”
My voice was steady.
Unyielding.
“There is no grand gesture. No apology. No dramatic sacrifice. No lifetime of suffering on your knees that can erase what you did.”
His expression didn’t shift.
I continued.
“You think pain gives you redemption? You think regret cancels consequences?”
I stepped closer — close enough that I could see the faint scar cutting across his jaw.
“You put me in a concrete cell for nine months.”
My throat tightened — but I forced the words out.
“You stripped away my freedom. My dignity. My child.”
His breathing changed.
Subtle.
He swallowed.
“You don’t get redemption,” I said firmly. “You don’t get absolution.”
My finger tapped lightly against his chest.
“You get to live with it.”
The words weren’t shouted.
They were delivered like a sentence.
Like a permanent mark.
He stared at me for several long seconds.
Gray eyes searching.
Unreadable.
Then suddenly —
He moved. Fast.
Before I could react, he closed the distance in one powerful stride.
