She was shaking.
Beside her lay the small wooden dollhouse she loved.
The Papa figure was clutched tightly in her tiny fist.
My weapon disappeared into my holster without conscious thought.
I dropped to one knee.
“Daphne.”
My voice came out lower than I expected — cracked by adrenaline and fear I refused to acknowledge.
She looked up.
Recognition flooded her face.
Then — she moved.
She launched herself out of the alcove and into my chest.
Tiny body crashing against me.
Arms wrapping around my neck with desperate strength.
She clung like she was afraid I would vanish if she loosened her grip.
A broken sob escaped her throat — muffled into my shirt.
“Daddy...”
That word.
It hit harder than bullets.
I pulled her closer.
Held her tighter than I ever had.
My jaw clenched as relief surged through me — violent and overwhelming.
She was alive.
Breathing. Warm. Whole.
For now.
My hand trembled slightly as I brushed her hair back from her face.
I forced my voice steady.
“Sweetheart... are you hurt?”
Daphne shook her head quickly.
“No. Mommy said be quiet mouse.”
Her small fingers tightened in the fabric of my shirt.
