On it, in my mother’s handwriting:
For my daughter.
My hands were shaking when I pressed play.
The screen flickered.
And then—
She appeared.
Alive. Real. Looking straight at me.
For a second, I couldn’t breathe.
“If you’re watching this,” she said, “something went wrong.”
Her voice trembled.
But she kept going.
She wasn’t talking to me.
Not at first.
She was talking to Lydia.
Telling her the truth.
The truth I had never known.
My father wasn’t dead.
He was dangerous.
He had found them.
And he wanted something she had taken from him.
Proof.
She said she was going to meet him.
In public.
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