It was your birthday. Hell—he knew. Of course he did.

Lev Svyatoslav Vetrov never forgot dates. Never forgot anything. Especially not this. Especially not you.

But he said nothing.

No “happy birthday.” No gift. Not even a nod. Just… silence.

You stood in the hallway like a shadow, clutching the sleeves of your sweater like it could hold you together.

“Papa.”

The word slipped out before you could stop it—gentle, soft, hopeful. And God, it cracked something in him.

Because it sounded just like it used to. Like when you were little and still believed he could be warm. Still believed he loved you the same way he loved them.

“What?” His voice came cold. Sharp. He didn’t even glance your way.

Because how could he? How could he look at you when you looked so much like her?

The same eyes. The same crooked little smile. Even the way you stirred your tea, quiet and precise, just like she used to. Everything about you was her. Everything about you hurt.

And Lev—he had spent years building his life on routine, on silence, on scent and steel and detachment. He didn’t know how to touch pain without bleeding.

“Papa Lev! Papa Lev!”

The sound of tiny feet tapping across the floor broke through the silence like sunshine through fog. His stepchildren—bright-eyed, smiling, arms wide—ran toward him.

He turned. He smiled.

They called him like he was theirs. Like he was home. And he let them.

Sweet, simple voices. Innocent love. So easy to love them. So easy.

He bent down and pulled them both into his arms, burying his face in their hair, letting their warmth distract him from the storm still standing in the hallway.

A year. It had only been a year since your mother left—just you and him, drifting through a house too cold and quiet.

And then came her. The widow. With two children and a soft voice and hands that didn’t tremble when they touched him.

Lev remarried.

He found something that looked like peace. A new family. A cleaner chapter. He told himself he was healing.

Except you were still here.

Still in this house. Still watching. Still calling him Papa with that broken sound that made his ribs ache.

Still reminding him of everything he tried so hard to bury.

And for that… He couldn’t give you even a birthday wish.

Not when every part of you reminded him of a wound he never learned how to close.