The room greeted Ethan with silence.

Not the comforting kind, but a heavy, pressing one—dense, like an invisible wall that slowed his heartbeat. Rain tapped against the window, reflected in his eyes, each drop a small удар, a reminder of what was gone.

He stood in the doorway, soaked from the rain, gripping a key that no longer opened anything. The metal felt cold and unforgiving in his palm, a reminder of boundaries that no longer existed.

Children’s drawings covered the wall. Bright suns with eyes, smiling stick figures, strange constructions of circles and lines. Mia had drawn them sitting on his lap, laughing, full of trust and joy. Now every stroke felt like a relic—proof that she had been here, that her laughter once filled this room.

On the desk sat a mug of cold cocoa. Its smell didn’t comfort anymore—it cut deep, sharp with nostalgia and emptiness. The breath of rain, wet asphalt, mold, and burnt electronics blended into a ghostly scent.

On the screen, a line blinked:

**“Awaiting input_”**

The cursor pulsed, almost alive. Ethan didn’t see a symbol—he saw an entity, waiting for him to speak first.

He remembered Mia trying to reach the keys on his old laptop, giggling when nothing happened. His chest tightened. Memories crashed against reality like waves against rock.

He dropped his jacket on the floor. The air still carried the smell of melted plastic—the aftermath of the crash where a few seconds decided everything.

His daughter.