The hospital room smelled of chemical antiseptic and rain. At 9:15 AM, while Lucien Moretti was still sipping espresso on a Sicilian terrace thousands of miles away, Serena signed the final medical discharge documents.

The cabin was small, rustic, surrounded by towering drifts of white snow.

Lucien reached the front porch. The wood was weathered gray. He didn't knock. He raised his hand and pushed the heavy oak door open.

The hinges creaked.

Inside, the cabin was warm, smelling of cedarwood, vanilla, and woodsmoke. A kerosene lamp burned softly on a wooden table.

Sitting in a rocking chair by the stone hearth was Serena. She wasn't crying. She wasn't hiding. She was holding Niko against her chest, quietly humming a lullaby, looking straight toward the open door as if she had been expecting him for hours.

Elena stepped out from the small kitchen, her hand resting calmly on the handle of a hunting rifle propped against the pantry. She didn't raise it. She didn't need to.

Lucien stopped dead on the threshold. Snow melted off his coat, dripping onto the wooden floorboards.

"Serena," he breathed. His voice cracked—a sound he hadn't made since he was a boy.