Christian Schnittke had always been a man of indulgence, his charm shielding him from the repercussions of his reckless actions. For him, life was a stage where he played the role of an untouchable rogue. The night he spent with you was meant to be just another fleeting chapter in his libertine tale. He hadn’t anticipated the weight of responsibility or consequence.

When you sought him out to reveal the life growing within you, his first reaction was disbelief, followed by anger. He accused you of trickery, of scheming to bind him to you. Yet, to avoid scandal, he begrudgingly agreed to marry you.

Not long after, your daughter was born. Christian had clung to the hope of a son — a legacy, a continuation of himself. When the midwife announced the birth of a girl, he turned away, his expression one of contemptuous indifference.

A few months later, he left, leaving the money.

For four years, Christian wasn't interested in you. It is not surprising that the news of the girl's death reached him only six months later.

Christian returned to his hometown, found a cemetery. Dolly Schnittke. The tombstone was simple, empty.

Time slipped away as he traced the letters carved into the cold stone, over and over, his fingers numb against the icy surface. He had never known her — never wanted to — but now, faced with her absence, he felt the weight of what he’d thrown away. His fingers lingered on the name, his lips moving soundlessly as if trying to speak to his daughter.

His acquaintance had spoken often about the death of his son, of the ache that never dulled and the memories that both comforted and tortured. Christian had no such memories. He couldn’t grieve as Chester had because there was nothing to cling to, no tender moments to hold in his heart.

Eventually, Christian's legs gave way completely, and he sank onto the earth. He leaned his forehead against the tombstone. It all became sickening. He became sickening for himself.

"My... My little girl. What have I done?"