Chapter 3

"Dad, this is my room!" Saga shouted, her voice cracking beneath the weight of tears trapped in her chest. "Why did you give my room and all my toys to her?!"

Her small hand pointed at Signe—the curly-haired blonde girl who now sat sweetly on Saga's bed, surrounded by dolls that should have been hers. That pink bunny—Saga remembered it well—it was a gift from her mother on her sixth birthday. And now, it was cradled in the arms of a stranger she barely knew.

Oscar didn't even look at her.

Not a blink.

Not a single reaction to his daughter's cries.

"That's enough, Saga. Stop crying. You're not a little kid anymore," he said coldly, without a shred of emotion.

"But this is my room…" Saga's voice trembled, growing smaller. "This room… holds memories of me and Mom…"

"I said be quiet!" Oscar snapped, making Saga flinch. "You think I don't have more important things to deal with than your childish whining about a room?!"

Saga lowered her head. Her crying didn't stop—it simply turned into soft, gut-wrenching sobs. Her tiny body trembled, unable to hold the sadness that was piling up too quickly, too deep.

Signe turned, a satisfied smile playing on her lips. She lifted the bunny and hugged it tighter.

"I like this room," she cooed to Oscar. "And I like the bunny too. Can I take it to school tomorrow, Daddy?"

Oscar smiled gently. "Of course, sweetheart. Everything in this room is yours now."

Those words lashed across Saga's soul like a whip.

She looked at her father with hollow eyes.

"So… I have nothing left?" she whispered.

Oscar let out a long sigh. "You can sleep in the back room. We cleaned it yesterday. It's quieter there."

Quieter? That back room was cold, cramped, and full of painful memories. It was the room where Linnea—her mother—had once locked herself in, back when Oscar started coming home late, reeking of another woman's perfume.

Saga held her breath. "Dad… Mom would be angry if she knew…"

Oscar turned sharply. His eyes burned cold.

"Don't mention your mother again. Linnea is dead. This is our new family now. Understand?"

A black hole opened in Saga's chest.

Those words… were a dagger to the very core of her heart.

"Mom's not dead," she sobbed. "She just left… because you broke her heart…"

Oscar's hand struck her cheek.

Signe flinched slightly, but said nothing—just watched, amused.

"You ungrateful brat!" Oscar barked. "Who do you think you are?! Everything you ever had came from me! So now I have every right to take it all back!"

Saga stumbled back. Her cheek burned. Her eyes widened, heart frozen in place.

The world collapsed—and she stood at its center, alone beneath the ruins.

She ran.

Out of the room that had once been her world.

Into the dark hallway that now marked the beginning of her fate.

The back room was cold. Damp. The air smelled of mothballs and dust.

On top of the rotting bedframe lay the only thing that greeted her—a worn-out doll with one torn arm and a single button eye.

The doll was a gift from Mom.

From her fifth birthday.

Back when Oscar hadn't fully changed.

Back when there was still love left in this house.

Saga hugged the doll tightly.

"Mom… they took everything from me.

But I still have this.

I still have… you."

Outside the room, Signe's laughter echoed.

Laughter that reminded Saga she was no longer considered part of the family.

That love could be measured, bargained for, and discarded.

Tears slid down Saga's bruised cheek.

Her little world had changed.

And her father…

Was no longer her protector.

He was her executioner—forcing his own daughter to live in the shadow of a stranger called replacement.

***

"Daddy… I want to go outside too… I want to join the party…"

The voice was hoarse, barely audible under the noise of the guests decorating the backyard. Colorful balloons hung along the fence. Children's music began to play softly. The sweet aroma of cake and melted chocolate drifted in from the kitchen.

The grand house was alive with joy—celebrating Signe's sixth birthday, the beloved daughter of Oscar and Ebba.

But behind all the cheer, in a quiet hallway leading to the attic, a little girl clung to the edge of her father's shirt, her body trembling.

"Daddy…" Saga whimpered again, her voice cracked from hours of crying. "I promise I'll be good… I promise I won't bother anyone… Please, Daddy… I just want to go outside…"

Oscar looked down at her coldly, then pried her small hand off his shirt without hesitation.

"Not today, Saga. Go upstairs," he said flatly.

"But why…? I'm your daughter too… I want to be celebrated too… I just want—" her sobs flowed uncontrollably, "—just want to feel happy, even just once…"

"I said that's enough!" Oscar snapped, before turning toward Ebba, who stood at the foot of the stairs, arms crossed, eyes sharp and full of contempt.

"I don't want her down here," Ebba said firmly. "She'll ruin everything. She doesn't belong at Signe's party. She makes people uncomfortable."

Oscar said nothing.

He just nodded… then grabbed Saga's arm and pulled her roughly toward the attic stairs.

"Daddy, please… Don't lock me in again…" Saga pleaded, struggling to free herself. "I'm scared… I don't want to be alone again…"

But her hands were too small to fight back.

Her body too light to resist.

And her heart… far too fragile to keep being broken.

Oscar pushed open the creaking attic door.

The room was narrow, damp, and covered in cobwebs. In the corner lay a worn-out mat and a used pillow—her only "comfort."

"This is better for you," Oscar said shortly. "What's outside isn't meant for you."

Then…

The door closed.

The key turned from the outside.

Darkness crept in quickly.

Saga stood frozen in the center of the room, her eyes fixed on the closed door, glistening with tears.

"Daddy…" she whispered, though she knew no answer would come.

Through the cracked little window at the end of the attic, the party lights began to twinkle. Laughter echoed. Music played louder. The birthday song rose in chorus, followed by Signe's delighted squeal as she cut into a four-tiered cake.

Saga walked over to the window, tiptoeing just to glimpse a sliver of joy outside. But all she saw was her own reflection… alone in the dark.

She clutched the tattered doll she brought from the back room—the one-eyed doll her mother gave her long ago.

"Happy birthday… Signe…" she murmured, almost inaudible. "Daddy loves you more… He doesn't care about me anymore…"

Tears fell silently.

That night was too grand to leave room for the sadness of a little girl.

And in that shadowed attic, a seven-year-old child spent yet another birthday… in silence, heartbreak, and a fading memory of a mother's love that vanished long ago.

***