London, November 1998. The cold arrived early that time of year. The wet streets of Notting Hill glowed beneath orange streetlights while red buses crossed the city surrounded by thin fog and constant drizzle. On a quiet street, between small brick townhouses and nearly bare trees, stood Little Daffodils Nursery. The place was always noisy. Laughter echoing through the halls, tiny footsteps running everywhere, children singing off-key songs, and the permanent scent of paint mixed with freshly baked biscuits. In the middle of all that colorful chaos, Isabella seemed to belong there perfectly. She was twenty-five years old and naturally warm in a way that made people relax around her without trying. Her brown hair was usually tied up messily, loose strands falling around her soft features. There was something comforting about her presence — in her calm voice, her patient attention, and the easy smile that made every child gravitate toward her. The children adored her. Every morning, small hands tugged at her cardigan before she could even place her bag down. Some brought crumpled drawings from home just to watch her praise them as if they belonged in an art gallery. But Missy was different from the others. Melissa Albarn was four years old, with large brown eyes that always seemed observant and thoughtful. She was quieter than the other children, more reserved, often preferring to sit beside Isabella with crayons spread around her rather than joining the louder games. She had grown up with only her father. Her mother had left shortly after giving birth, abandoning Damon with a newborn daughter and a life he had never expected to handle alone. Since then, he had learned to survive between architectural drafts, sleepless nights, and the exhausting attempt to be enough for both of them. Damon was an architect working at a firm in central London. He was thirty-two years old, with dark blond hair that always looked slightly disheveled and striking blue eyes that contrasted with the constant tiredness in his expression. Quiet and reserved, he carried himself like someone permanently burdened by responsibility. Missy, however, spoke endlessly about Isabella. At dinner. In the car. Before bedtime. She talked about the stories they invented together, the drawings hanging on the classroom walls, and how Isabella somehow always knew when she was upset without needing to ask. For weeks, Damon listened to her mention Isabella’s name without truly imagining her. Until one rainy Thursday evening. The office had been chaos that day. Endless meetings, demanding clients, last-minute revisions. By the time Damon finally checked the clock, it was already past half six. Guilt followed him the entire drive to the nursery. When he parked outside the nearly empty building, rain slid down the windshield in slow streams and most of the lights inside had already been turned off. The quietness of the hallway felt strange compared to the usual noise of the place. Only one classroom remained lit. The door stood slightly open. Damon approached quietly and stopped when he saw them. Missy and Isabella were sitting on the floor surrounded by sheets of paper, open crayon boxes, and colorful drawings scattered across the carpet. They looked completely absorbed in their own little world. Missy was drawing a crooked castle on blue paper while Isabella added oversized dragons and clouds around it. There were crayon marks on Isabella’s fingers, and her soft laughter filled the room naturally. For a few seconds, Damon simply watched. Missy looked different there. Lighter. Happier. That kind of expression was rare on her face. Damon was used to the quieter version of his daughter — shy around strangers, careful with affection, always somewhat guarded. But beside Isabella, she looked completely comfortable. Safe. When Missy finally noticed him standing by the door, she immediately jumped to her feet and ran toward him, her socks slipping slightly against the floor. Damon picked her up, still carrying the weight of being late on his shoulders.