The air in the small, dimly lit house felt heavier than usual.

It was like it carried the weight of unspoken words and memories best left untouched. Annabelle’s hand gripped the gun tightly,

Her knuckles were white as she stared at the man before her.

Patrick Shaw.

Her father.

The last time she’d seen him.

His hair was darker, and his posture was straighter.

Now, his hair had thinned and greyed, and there was a pallor to his skin that spoke of illness or hardship.

But his eyes were the same.

A shade of brown that might have been brilliant once but now seemed tired.

“You’re... taller and…more beautiful than...