Chapter 5

When I was ten, I lay in bed, wracked by a stubborn fever. My throat was so swollen I couldn't speak. One night, parched and delirious, I tried to call for help but no words came. Stumbling out of bed, I attempted to get water, only to spill the scalding liquid on my wrist.

My father was heartbroken when he learned what happened. He felt guilty for not being there. A few days later, he gave me a whistle, custom-made from a special metal by an expert craftsman. With a tender smile, he said, "If you ever can't speak again, just blow this and I'll find you."

From then on, I wore it constantly. It became our private joke—I'd blow it when visiting, and he'd playfully rush in, feigning alarm. Though silly, it made me feel secure, knowing he'd always come for me.

Now, as the whistle's sound filled the entrance hall, I held onto that faint hope. Would he recall? Would he recognize me?