The next morning, Mira's parents arrived.
They had caught the earliest flight, their faces pale and drawn, their eyes red from crying and lack of sleep. Mira's father, Mr. Robbin, was a small business owner who ran a modest electronics repair shop in their hometown. His hands were calloused from years of work, his shoulders slightly stooped from bending over circuit boards and soldering irons. He wore a simple button-down shirt and dark trousers and his hair was graying at the temples.
Mira's mother, Mrs. Robbin, was a perfume maker with a small workshop in the city centre mall, where she blended essential oils and created custom fragrances for clients. Her hands were soft, her nails always perfectly shaped, and she smelled like lavender and jasmine. Her face was kind, her eyes gentle, but today they were filled with fear.
