Clara lay weak and fragile in Casey’s arms. Her sobs gradually subsided into the rhythms of sleep.
Staring at her gaunt cheeks, Casey was haunted by a nagging premonition sparked by her earlier words. His hand tenderly brushed her forehead as his eyes welled up with concern. “Clara, do you know something you’re not telling me?”
Since her return, Clara had been in a deep slumber for two whole days and nights. Even in her unconscious state, she was aware of visitors by her bedside.
She heard Sasha’s tearful rebukes, felt Rose’s gentle grip on her hand accompanied by soft sobs. Clara longed to open her eyes to see them, but her eyelids seemed glued shut, unyielding to her will.
Dream and reality blurred into one another.
She saw herself, a child again, asleep on her father’s back; she relived the heartbreaking moment when, after her desperate plunge into the lake triggered by Victoria’s actions, her father cradled her lifeless body and wept.
Every act of love her father had bestowed upon her since childhood replayed in her mind. His image shifted from a young, handsome scholar to a middle-aged man with graying temples. In each phase, the adoration in his eyes never wavered.
After the divorce from Victoria, her father, not yet forty, had dedicated his life solely to her, never contemplating remarriage. How could such a devoted man not be her biological father? The thought of his sorrow pierced her heart.
Visions of her father’s loving gaze flooded Clara’s mind, and tears streamed down her cheeks uncontrollably as she murmured, “Daddy, daddy.”
At her calls, Casey rushed to her side. His hand soothingly stroked her hair as he whispered, “It’s alright. I’m right here.”
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