“Is it really mine?” she asked.
“It is yours,” Daniel said.
“You can share it, save it, eat the frosting first, or decide you don’t like cake at all.”
Leo lit the candles.
Mia blew them out, then cut the first slice for herself.
She took three bites before reaching for her glass of milk.
Halfway through the motion, she glanced at Daniel, the old question forming in her eyes.
Can I?
Daniel said nothing.
He simply smiled and nodded toward the refrigerator, its doors clean, bright, and unlocked.
Mia stood, opened it by herself, and poured more milk without asking anyone’s permission.
That small sound—the refrigerator door opening freely—became the sound Daniel remembered most.
Not Monica’s shouting.
Not the officers entering the ship.
Not the scrape of Oscar’s chair when his lies collapsed.
A child opening a door that no longer held her captive.
Then returning to the table as though she had always belonged there.
