An old man stepped forward, voice suddenly exploding through the showroom.
“ANNA’S SON?!”
Gasps. Confusion. Fear.
He pulled out an old photograph with shaking hands.
The same showroom. The same lighting. The same woman smiling like the world couldn’t hurt her.
His voice cracked under the weight of memory.
“She’s my daughter…”
The manager stumbled back, pale as the marble beneath her feet.
The boy looked up, tears falling now freely.
“She said… you told everyone she died…”
Silence.
Not the peaceful kind.
The kind that suffocates.
Phones kept recording, but no one moved anymore. No one dared.
The truth had landed in the room like broken glass—impossible to ignore, impossible to fix.
And in that frozen moment, the luxury showroom didn’t feel rich anymore.
It felt exposed.
