Her breath caught in her throat.
Lucy stood frozen at the doorway, eyes fixed on the far end of the room. It wasn’t the dim lights that held her in place.
It was the photo.
There, framed on the shelf, sitting neatly between files and a stack of old books… was a picture of her parents.
Her chest tightened.
“What…?” she whispered, her voice barely making a sound.
She stepped closer, slow and careful like the floor might collapse beneath her. Her knees felt weak. Her hands trembled. The closer she got, the clearer it became.
It wasn’t a mistake. It wasn’t someone who looked like them.
It was them.
Her father, smiling. Her mother, laughing in that same red dress Lucy remembered from old family photos. Her father’s arm around her mother’s waist like he always used to do.
It was real.
