My father stood in the doorway, destroyed by memory.
“You should have told me,” I said.
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.” I turned to him. “You made my childhood a vault. You made my grief false. You let me mourn a brother who might have been calling for us.”
His eyes shone. “Every day of my life, I have paid for that choice.”
“Not enough.”
He accepted that with a nod.
Mara brought a small sewing kit. With trembling hands, I opened the seam along the rabbit’s chest.
Inside was old cotton stuffing.
And something hard.
A silver music charm.
For one terrible second, I thought my father had been wrong.
Then Mara leaned closer. “Wait.”
Inside the charm was a hidden compartment.
She twisted it carefully.
A tiny black drive slipped into her palm.
The room went silent.
There it was.
The thing men had killed for.
