Did she remember her parents? Did she know where home was? Could she remember where she had come from before ending up at my door?
Every single time, Zara fell silent
Or worse—the subtle signs of distress. The way she seemed to fold inward, retreating somewhere I couldn’t follow.
So I stopped asking.
Not because I didn’t care—but because I cared too much to hurt her.
Her autism wasn’t something to fix. It was something to understand. To respect.
And somehow... we fit perfectly.
I knew the risks of keeping Zara in my custody.
I wasn’t naïve enough to pretend this was sustainable. Children didn’t just disappear without someone noticing. Somewhere out there, someone was looking for her—or worse, someone dangerous was trying to get her back.
They would come eventually.
And when they did, what would I say?
That a blind woman opened her door and found a wounded child asking for help?
That I kept her?
Loved her? Claimed her?
The thought lingered like a storm on the horizon.
But I pushed it away.
Because the alternative—the idea of losing her—was unbearable.
Zara was my daughter.
Not by blood. Not by law. But by choice.
And I would burn the world down before I let anyone take her from me.
“Miss Loretta...”
The voice cut through my thoughts, hesitant and careful.
I stiffened slightly, my fingers pausing over my keyboard.
It was Thursday evening, and I was seated behind my desk at Rafael Perez’s company, where I worked as an intern.
Even without sight, I had learned to map the office through sound and movement.
This voice belonged to one of the junior assistants.
“Yes?” I replied, keeping my tone even.
“The boss is finally in,” he said. “He requires your presence immediately.”
My heart dropped.
A sharp, sinking sensation that made my chest tighten as my fingers curled slightly against the edge of the desk.
