= Amara =
“Caryl!”
The voice cut through the quiet from outside, deep and sharp, carrying that unmistakable weight of authority—and patience stretched thin. It was the kind of voice that didn’t demand attention politely; it commanded it.
Caryl froze mid-step, her hand hovering for a moment on the doorframe. Her eyes flicked toward the entrance, already knowing without needing to hear it a second time. “That’s my father,” she murmured, almost under her breath.
Of course it was.
I couldn’t help the small, almost imperceptible smile that tugged at my lips. Fathers had a way of appearing just at the right—or most inconvenient—moment.
“Go,” I said softly, my voice gentle, careful not to add to the tension in her shoulders. “Before he storms in here and scolds both of us for ignoring him.”
