Chapter 8

Driven by an inexplicable impulse, perhaps the instinct of a dying man or the weight of years of shared history, I made the decision to return home.

It was a gloomy, rain-soaked day.

As I opened the door, I saw Vivienne's frail figure, clutching a pink diary, lost in thought.

After days apart, she had noticeably thinned, her face pale and haggard.

Her eyes were brimming with sorrow.

I glanced at the object in her hands – it was Sunshine's diary.

Though only six years old, she had already learned to write simple words.

A bright and intuitive child, even when she couldn't spell, she'd piece together sentences using phonetics.

Vivienne opened the first page, where wobbly handwriting read:

[Today, Mom was smiling at her phone again. Dad says Mom's just feeling lonely and that I should spend more time with her.]

Her hands began to tremble as she turned the pages.