Minutes seemed to stretch into eternity, each second heavy with dread. I couldn’t stop the flood of questions rising within me—who would want to hurt us? And why? More pressing was the question of how my father could possibly be alive. He had been a rock in my life until the day he died. Or, I had thought he died.I watched as the steady stream of people passed by, oblivious to the turmoil encapsulating my world. The old woman remained by my side, a silent sentinel, her presence oddly comforting despite the chaos unraveling around us.

Finally, a distant figure emerged from the mist at the end of the street, moving with a familiar, purposeful stride. My heart leapt, battling between hope and an ingrained skepticism. As he drew closer, the truth became undeniable. It was him—my father, looking older, wearier, but alive.Tears blurred my vision as he rushed towards us, arms outstretched. “Natalie!” he called, voice breaking with emotion. I stood, nearly stumbling in my haste to close the distance. He enveloped us in a fierce embrace, the smell of his jacket so achingly familiar and comforting.“I can’t believe it,” I sobbed into his shoulder. “How is this possible?”