Nine

"Do you really want people to think I'm your daughter, Good Master?"

Jerald paused mid-dinner, his gaze fixed on Berezira across the table. "People might gossip if they find out we're not related but still living together. It could attract unwanted attention, and I don't want Mostafa catching wind of our location," he explained. "Could you call me 'Father' instead of 'Good Master'? I think it might suit you better than 'Daddy.'"

Berezira nodded. "Alright...father," she replied before returning to her meal.

The girl rarely spoke and seemed older than her years. She rarely left the house, and when she did, it was only to watch birds and animals in the woods nearby. She never ventured far, avoiding social interaction and even leaving the TV off. Jerald was concerned, but he had no idea how to help her. He'd faced bombs, guns, and bullets before, but a withdrawn, twelve-year-old girl scarred by a traumatic past was a challenge beyond his expertise.

They ate in silence for a while until Je