A
Starfania rose slowly from her chair, her hands trembling against the polished wood of her father's desk. The quiet rustle of her clothes was the only sound between them—no words, no shared glance, just the heavy silence that always filled the space like fog. Her heart screamed to say something. To bridge the canyon between them. And yet, when she reached for the door handle, something inside her stopped. Her fingers tightened on the brass knob as if her body refused to leave. She turned back, eyes shimmering with unshed tears, searching his face for the smallest trace of warmth—a reason to stay, a reason to believe that the father she once knew still existed beneath the armor of duty.
Cesar didn't look up. The scratch of his quill on paper cut through the air like a blade. Without glancing her way, he muttered, " Are you going to stand there? Or are you content to drift like a lost soul?"
The words hit harder than he knew. They weren't meant to wound, but they did—clean and deep. Starfania's throat tightened. A small, broken laugh escaped her lips, though it carried no joy.
" A lost soul, " she whispered faintly. " Maybe I am."
She sighed, a sound that trembled with everything she'd never said, and pulled the door closed behind her. The sharp click of the latch echoed down the corridor like a last goodbye. Once she was out of his sight, Starfania's composure cracked.
She leaned against the cold stone wall, the strength in her legs fading. Her breaths came uneven, shallow. The emotions she'd kept buried finally spilled free—anger, sorrow, confusion—all blurring into a hollow ache in her chest. Her hand pressed over her heart as if she could steady it. Her father's voice replayed in her mind, every syllable of distance cutting like glass.
" I thought…maybe he'd see me," she whispered to herself. " Just once."
A single tear fell, followed by another, until her vision shimmered. The surrounding corridor seemed to blur, and she sank to the floor, curling slightly, as if to protect what little strength she had left. Her body shook with quiet sobs, the kind she wouldn't let anyone else hear.
And yet, even in her pain, she refused to let despair win. Starfania took a shaky breath, forcing herself upright. You can't fall apart, she reminded herself. Not now. She walked away, the weight of disappointment trailing behind her like a shadow. Each step echoed hollowly down the hall until she disappeared around the corner. What she didn't know was that, moments after she left, the scratching of the quill inside the room stopped. Cesar sat frozen at his desk. His jaw tightened, his eyes fixed on the door his daughter had just closed. Slowly, he pushed back his chair and stood, his tall frame casting a long shadow across the study.
He moved toward the door—stopped just short—then let his hand fall to his side. His gaze shifted to the framed photo resting beside a candle. The light flickered against the image: his wife, smiling softly, with young Starfania cradling her baby brother in her arms. For a long moment, Cesar didn't move. Then, his armor of stoicism began to crack. His shoulders sank as his hand brushed over the frame, tracing the outlines of their faces.
" I've failed you in ways I can never mend," he whispered, the words barely audible. " I miss you both…more that I can bear. Every day it aches."
The candlelight wavered, glinting in his eyes—not firelight, but tears. He swallowed hard, his voice breaking slightly as he continued. " I promised to protect them…but I've failed. The burden keeps growing, and I—"
He stopped, exhaling shakily. " I don't know if I can carry it much longer."
For a long silence, he simply stood there—the ruler, the warrior, the father—hollowed by regret. Then he sat again, lifting the photo closer.
" I'm sorry, my little star," he murmured, his voice gentle. " You deserve better than this broken man. I wish I could hold you again…tell you how proud I am. One day, you'll heal what I could not. You'll see beauty where I've left ruin."
He pressed the photo briefly against his chest, closing his eyes. " I'll protect you from the shadows, even if you never know it."
When he set the frame back down, the warmth in his eyes had dimmed—replaced by the resolve of a man burying his grief beneath duty. With one final, deep sigh, Cesar returned to his desk.
The candle's flame bent toward the open window, its light flickering across the ink-stained papers—a symbol of two hearts forever divided by silence, each longing for the other, neither knowing how to reach across the distance.