On a cold night, the moon stood witness to a scream yet to be born—a scream of betrayed love and broken trust. She was the girl who had grown up in the shadow of a strange man, the one who called her "my daughter" and gently patted her head when her orphaned dreams trembled. His voice became her home, and his footsteps in the hallway became her sense of safety.

Years passed, until one evening she found herself in his office, searching for something she couldn't name. She opened an old drawer, dust-laden and forgotten—only for an unburied past to fall out. A torn photograph… showing her real father beside the man who raised her. And a half-finished confession, written in a shaky hand.

Her heart quivered, as if the ground cracked beneath her. How? How could he be the murderer? The one who destroyed her home, only to rebuild it upon a lie?

That night, she walked in on him silently. He was sitting in his chair, sipping coffee as he always did.

She approached with heavy steps, hiding a knife in her sleeve. When she reached him, she said nothing. She simply… drove the blade into his left side.

He gasped softly. It wasn’t a fatal stab, but it bled a different kind of pain. He didn’t scream. He merely collapsed back, stunned, staring at her as though something inside him shattered.

With a trembling hand, he reached out and gently touched her back— as if she were still the little girl he picked up off the street, not the one who had just stabbed him.

His voice came out weak, laced with a pain far deeper than blood:

“Why, my soul’s heartbeat… What did I do to hurt you this deeply?”