Later that day I was sitting in my room with the pictures I had gathered from mother's apartment. I shut the door firmly behind me. I didn't want any interruptions. Lately, I had developed a strange obsession with photographs, like they held pieces of truth I had ignored before, small details hidden in plain sight.
I sat on the bed and opened the album, slowly flipping through the pages. My eyes moved over familiar faces of me, Elena, Mum, and Dad. We all looked perfect, like the kind of family people admired from a distance. Smiling. Happy. Untouched.
Then Uncle Lucas appeared in one of the pictures, standing beside Dad with that same smile I now found unbearable. I let out a quiet scoff and turned the page, but the irritation stayed with me.
The next picture made me pause.
