In the dead hours of the night, when the Laguna had gone quiet but never truly slept, Lara was still wide awake.
Her fingers drifted over the smooth edges of the book Yannis had given her, tracing it like it might breathe under her touch.
Her fingertip touched the combination lock.
A beat passed. Then she punched in the numbers.
5–2–2–1.
Her birthday, written backwards.
A soft click split the silence then the lock gave in.
Lara opened the book slowly, almost cautiously—like it might bite.
It wasn't a journal. It was a photo book.
And not the kind people leave on coffee tables.
This one felt… deliberate and complete.
More detailed than the first.
It mapped her life—piece by piece—from when she was barely more than a toddler.
Her breath hitched as she flipped to the earliest page.
She expected softness. Warmth. Something familiar.
A one-year-old girl with copper-brown curls, chubby cheeks, and a gap-toothed grin, reaching for the camera.
But that wasn't what she saw.
