from the frame of a softly colored room, in a quiet and impeccably maintained neighborhood on the outskirts of Chicago,
It’s one of those places where the grass is cut at the same time and neighbors pass each other with polite gestures without ever really getting to know each other.
“Dad… please don’t be angry,” the little voice continued, too weak to go any further. “Mom said that if I told you, everything would get worse. My back hurts so much I can’t sleep.”
Aaron Cole stood frozen in the hallway, one hand still gripping the handle of his suitcase. He had only arrived fifteen minutes earlier.
The front door wasn’t even locked; his jacket was still where it had fallen. His thoughts were filled with a single, familiar image:
His daughter running towards him laughing, as she always did when he returned from his trips, with her arms open, her feet barely touching the ground.
