Night air wrapped the street in stillness as Seraphine stepped outside the cozy little home.

  Rita waved from the doorway, Mia clutching her bunny, giggling goodbye.

  Marco jogged after her.

  “I’ll walk you to the gate,” he offered— voice too cheery, too eager to mend something long fractured.

  Seraphine smiled politely. “Sure.”

  They walked side by side beneath the dim street lamps.

  The only sounds: crickets humming, the faint clink of dishes being washed inside, and Marco’s uneven breathing.

  Seraphine could feel his eyes flick toward her every few seconds— nervous, hopeful, guilty.

  He cleared his throat once.

  Twice.

  Then finally: “Sera.”

  She didn’t stop walking. She waited.

  “I just want to say…” His voice faltered, like the words were too weighted to carry. “…about before.”

  Seraphine slowed slightly, expression soft, unreadable.

  “I was—” He swallowed hard. “Young. And stupid. And selfish.”

  She watched his hands curl and uncurl.

  “What happened,” he forced out, “shouldn’t have happened.”

  Silence.

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  Marco exhaled shakily, as though peeling open a wound he’d stitched over decades ago.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “For everything.” His voice trembled. “I swear—if anyone ever hurt my daughter the way I—helped hurt you…” His jaw clenched. “I’d die.” It sounded like a prayer. Or a confession.

  “And I’m not that person anymore,” he whispered. “I promise you that.”

  Seraphine stopped walking. Marco stopped too.

  She turned just enough to look at him— a faint, delicate smile playing on her lips.

  Warm on the surface. Glacial underneath.

  “I forgot about all that,” she said kindly. “Really.”

  Relief crashed over his face like a wave. His shoulders dropped. He inhaled fully for the first time.

  “I’m better now,” he murmured, almost grateful.

  Seraphine nodded. “And I’m not broken,” she said lightly. “I grew up fine.”

  His eyes glistened—hope rekindling.

  “That’s good,” he whispered. “God, that’s so good.”

  And then Seraphine reached out. Just a touch— her fingertips brushing his forearm.

  Marco froze.

  “Actually,” she added softly, eyes rising to meet his, voice velvet-smooth and devastating, “if I’m honest…”

  A pause— long enough for him to think maybe forgiveness was real.

  “…I don’t think that part of my life was all that bad.”

  Marco blinked, confusion knitting his brow.

  Seraphine leaned closer, breath brushing his ear, voice low enough to be intimate, soft enough to be lethal.

  “I kind of miss it.”

  Time stopped.

  Marco’s pupils dilated. His throat bobbed in a swallow. Something ugly and familiar flickered across his eyes— something he thought he killed years ago.

  She saw it. Savored it.

  Then she pulled back— expression bright, like the conversation never dipped into hell.

  “Well,” she said cheerfully, “this is my stop.”

  She turned, lifted a hand, flagged down a taxi.

  Marco stared— mouth parted, breath shaking, mind in pieces.

  Seraphine opened the taxi door and slid in with grace.

  She gave him one last look through the window. Her eyes no longer smiling.

  Just a storm— ancient, black, and bottomless.

  The taxi pulled away, leaving Marco standing in the pool of lamplight like a child caught stealing breath.

  Inside the cab, Seraphine’s face finally dropped its mask.

  Her jaw tightened. Her lips flattened. A pulse hammered under her skin.

  How dare he.

  How dare he: invoke regret like a magic eraser, try to rewrite history into a mistake, speak as though apology was currency, believe forgiveness was door she’s open.

  He got to grow. He got to heal. He got a home, a wife, a daughter.

  And all she got was the memory he pretended to regret.

  Her fingers dug into her dress.

  He thought “sorry” meant escape. He thought she was done.

  He had no idea: She wasn’t finished.

  Not even close.