Rose’s POV
The weight of the man’s stare settled over me like a shadow, sending a sharp prickle down my spine. My breath caught, and for a moment, I couldn’t move. I knew him. Not by name. Not by stories. But by memories—flashes of a different time that had been buried deep within me but now clawed their way to the surface with startling clarity.
I was sixteen again, standing in the dimly lit hallway of my father’s office, my fingers curled tightly around the doorframe as I listened to voices on the other side. It wasn’t eavesdropping; it was survival. In our house, silence often spoke louder than words, and if you wanted answers, you had to listen when no one thought you were paying attention.
"Richard, we had a deal," my father’s voice had said, frantic and strained, his usual calm
