I hesitated—then lifted the scarf to my nose.
The scent hit immediately.
Soft floral notes.
My throat tightened before I could stop it.
I let it fall back gently, my gaze drifting across the walls.
Photographs.
So many of them.
On the low antique table sat three thick albums.
My hands moved before I fully decided to open one.
The first page alone changed everything.
A beautiful, slender woman—undeniably Zara.
She looked alive in a way that made the air feel heavier just looking at her, as though even paper couldn’t diminish the force of her presence.
She was breathtaking.
Page after page, she filled the album.
Smiling. Laughing. Growing.
Pregnancy photos dominated the middle sections.
Her hands cradling her belly with quiet tenderness, her expression soft in a way that made my chest ache unexpectedly.
In one image, she stood barefoot in a sunlit garden, hair loose around her face.
And then—
Rafael.
Kneeling in front of her.
Pressing a kiss to her stomach.
The man in the photograph looked like someone else entirely.
His usual cold precision was gone. His face was unguarded, younger in a way that had nothing to do with age.
He was smiling—actually smiling—in a way that reached his eyes and softened every hard line I had ever seen on him.
It didn’t look like the man I knew.
It looked like a man who had been allowed to exist without armor.
Another page.
Rafael carrying Zara bridal-style through a field of blooming roses, both of them laughing openly, their faces turned toward each other like nothing else in the world mattered.
My fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the album.
