reborns aren't a thing

She didn't forget her mission, and it made me prouder, happier. I was trying to push her to become the best, wisest version of herself, and I wasn't disappointed. Maybe, with her by my side, now, we could change the daddy issues narrative. We'll be stronger, and I'll soon forget that I left Iris to her own devices. It was all about stakes, I had to have kids with the Robins twins to grant a good gene trasmission ; they needed Anticipators, and lately, my work had been majorly criticized. The whole scenario was for my sake, so that I'd go and look for meaning on who I am, but instead of using her, I ended up teaching my doubts to my inheritant daughter.

Now that Aurora's dead, I'm born again.

Now I have a wooden board stuck at my wall by Cecilia. All the evidence, possible paths of the criminal, personal connections, secret haters of the blondie, and what have you. She now knows the murderer walked down the certain exact road with exact longitude and altitude measures, has asked pedestrians and random strangers, and has a list of suspects she is elaborating secretly, while I quite know who might be there if she has the intellectual abilities I suspect her of having. She has a list of people with motives, and she even had the nerve to reexamine the young indie girl's corpse to try and diagnose the wound nature. She is a try-hard, just like her daddy. Green eyes and freckles on her face as if I were watching myself. She sits in shabby oversized clothes, hair messy but sleek, chews her fingernails and writes endless lists that could somewhat, somehow bring her friend to life again, and then looks up the intersections between them. She spends whole days doing it, not ceasing the business unless she has to use the bathroom, eat or sleep. No more skincare, haircare, showers neither. A stinky little gummy bear doing the detective job better than Sherlock and Watson.

But then, does it even matter? Her and I aren't meant to keep this picture-perfect relationship forever. When I supervise her research, she trusts me. When I bring her a snack knowing she's exhausted and famished, she smiles at me and takes a big bite. But this trust is very soon to die. I know it, and I can't help but beat myself up. This fairytale of fatherhood was about to come to an end and kill my very last heart strings. Wasn't I the clumsiest and most egocentrical of them all? Wasn't I the main antagonist in my own life?