ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY EIGHT

Standing before my father’s room, I pause with my hand on the cold brass handle. My fingers twitch around it, slick with the faintest sweat. I inhale deeply, once, twice.

Roman’s hand brushes mine, steady, grounding. That silent encouragement gives me just enough strength to push the handle down and step inside.

I don’t know what I expected… but the room is just that. A room.

It’s clean. Too clean. The faint scent of polish and old cologne hangs in the air, trapped between silence and memory.

The bed is perfectly made… but I can still feel it… this is where he died. Right there. On that bed.

My chest seizes. I stumble a step back, the walls suddenly too close.

Before I can turn to flee, Roman’s hand finds the small of my back. He doesn’t say a word; he just nudges me forward and quietly shuts the door behind us.

The sound echoes. Final.

The sheer curtains at the balcony shiver helplessly in the wind. The desk beneath them sits untouched, a pen lying diagonally across an open, blank pa