There was nothing special about their house from the outside. But to certain people, Marek’s name was enough to make them avoid the entire block.

Marek was known as the eraser of traces. If someone wanted to disappear from the world, Marek was the one they sought. But his own life was filled with marks that could never be erased.

His daughter knew enough not to ask questions. She knew his bedroom was always locked. She knew that every Sunday night, Marek left for three hours without ever saying where he went. She knew that if she ever heard three knocks at the back window, she should never go near the door.

One night, Marek sat in the kitchen. Silent. In his hand was an envelope, dried blood lining its edge.

“You’re still young,” he said quietly. “But sooner or later, people will come for you just because you carry my blood.”

He slid the envelope across the table to her.

“It holds names and locations. If I don’t come back next week, find the first person on the list. They’ll know what to do with you.”

She looked at him, but Marek didn’t look back.

That night, Marek left earlier than usual. But before stepping out, he turned one last time.

“Don’t be weak. This world has no mercy for the daughter of a man who erases lives.”