There she was again—curled on the couch, a half-finished book resting on her chest, her breathing even and peaceful. A lamp hummed quietly nearby. He paused for a moment, just looking.

He moved forward, kneeling carefully. With practiced ease, he slipped one arm under her legs, the other behind her back, and lifted her gently.

She stirred.

Softly, sleepily, like a dream trying to remember itself, she mumbled: “Papa…?”

His body froze for a fraction of a breath. His grip tightened—not out of anger, but something old. Something sacred.

“No,” he whispered, pressing his lips gently to her forehead. “It’s your husband.”

She didn’t open her eyes. But tears came anyway, sliding sideways down her cheeks.

“He used to carry me like this,” she whispered, voice broken. “Even when I was too big. Even when he had back pain, when I fell asleep in the couch or my study. Said I was his ‘forever little girl.’”

She sobbed once, her fingers tightening on his collar. “I didn’t get to say goodbye.”

Alleris sat down at the edge of their bed with her still in his arms, letting her grief spill like floodwater, he knows she's still grieving for her late father.

“I’m not him,” he said quietly. “But if you ever fall asleep again, anywhere… I’ll always carry you.”