The girl was still there, watching quietly, that same small sad smile at the corners of her mouth.
Victor crawled the short distance toward her, took her dirt-smudged hands in both of his, and asked in a trembling voice, “Who are you? What was that? What did you give my daughter?”
Grace lowered her eyes, not in shame but in gentleness.
“It’s a recipe my grandmother taught me before she died,” she said. “Herbs, wild honey, and roots from the countryside. She always said nature keeps secrets that people in big hospitals don’t understand.”
Victor, a man who usually demanded technical details, scientific proof, legal certainty, and measurable outcomes, did not ask another question.
He looked back at Sofia, who was now testing her own voice in soft little bursts—broken syllables, astonished sounds, the beginning of speech arriving awkwardly but undeniably into the world.
Every sound felt holy.
The streetlights around the park flickered on, one by one.
Victor stood slowly and said, “You have to come with us. Please. Let me thank you. Come to dinner. Come to the house. Let me do something for you.”
Grace stepped back immediately and shook her head.