“That’s impossible.”
Aruna’s voice sounded foreign to her own ears.
Her fingers trembled as if her body refused to accept what Marco had just said. The room felt too small, too quiet, as if the walls were closing in on her.
“My mother is dead,” she whispered. “I saw the hospital report. I signed the papers. I buried her.”
Marco did not look away. “Reports can be forged. Graves can be empty.”
Aruna shook her head violently. “Stop. Don’t say that.”
Dante stepped closer, his presence grounding her before she collapsed.
“Look at me,” he said.
She did not want to.
“Aruna,” he repeated, firmer this time.
She lifted her eyes slowly.
“You need to hear this,” Dante said.
Her breath hitched. “I don’t want to.”
Marco spoke again, his tone careful, almost reluctant.
“We found traces of m
