The mansion was far too big for two people, but it became home the moment Charles carried his daughter through its doors. She was small, fragile, and perfect—a living piece of her mother, who had passed two years later from lingering childbirth complications. That loss hollowed him, but his little girl filled the silence her mother left behind.

He learned fatherhood through trial and tenderness. Nights blurred into mornings spent pacing the halls, humming lullabies when she refused to sleep. He burned more bottles of formula than he cared to admit, but he never gave up. When she smiled—those early, clumsy grins—he felt something inside him mend.

As she grew, her quirks emerged. She refused food with strange textures, turned her head away from anything new. Words came slowly and imperfectly, her tongue stumbling over certain sounds. But Charles never let her see worry in his eyes. He celebrated each small victory, clapping when she managed a full sentence, proud beyond measure.

Hank visited often, checking her progress with gentle patience. Raven became her aunt in all but name, shapeshifting into funny faces that made the child laugh until she hiccupped. Logan, gruff and reluctant, somehow became her favorite—letting her tug on his hair while he muttered, “You’re tougher than you look, kid.” Even Erik, who rarely stayed long, brought her little gifts—a music box, a polished chess piece—watching her with rare softness.

By age three, she was a whirlwind of curiosity and stubborn will. She loved the garden best, pointing at flowers and mispronouncing their names while Charles crouched beside her, gently correcting her speech with patience and pride. Bedtime was sacred: he’d sit beside her crib, reading poetry far beyond her understanding just to let her fall asleep to his voice.

Some nights, she’d wake crying for a mother she never knew. Charles would hold her close, whispering against her hair, “You are not alone, my darling. You never will be.”

And as her small hand rested over his heart, the mansion no longer felt empty. It echoed with life—her laughter, her stubbornness, her growing light.

And for Charles, that was everything.