Who is the father?

Alysha sat quietly with Sisi curled up beside her, the little girl’s arms wrapped tightly around her, as if afraid Alysha might slip away. Sisi didn’t say much, her words limited to soft, affectionate whispers of “Mommy” followed by giggles, her tiny face lighting up with joy every time Alysha looked at her.

Alysha felt an overwhelming warmth as she kissed Sisi’s head, feeling the softness of her daughter’s hair, the innocent trust in her touch. She wasn’t sure why, but holding Sisi felt right, as if this was a piece of her life she’d been missing all along, a missing part of herself she’d somehow found. The connection was instinctive, deeper than memory, and it tugged at her heartstrings, filling her with a fierce, protective love she couldn’t explain.

Charles watched the two of them, his confusion barely concealed as he leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, a faint frown creasing his brow. He’d seen many things in his career, but this—Alysha, who barely remembered her own name,