Her fingers were almost touching his when the father's hand came down hard between them.

"Enough."

The word cut through the silence like a door slamming shut.

The boy flinched but didn't step back.

The girl's hand froze in the air, trembling, reaching toward nothing now.

"Sir, please—" the boy started.

"Don't." The father's voice dropped lower.

"Don't speak to her.

Don't look at her.

You don't belong here."

A woman near the back laughed softly.

Someone else whispered something behind a crystal glass.

The girl's hand slowly fell back to the armrest.

But her eyes didn't fall.

She kept looking at the boy.

And what was in them wasn't sadness.

It was fury.

"Papa." Her voice was quiet.

"Let him speak."

The father turned to her, stunned.

She had never spoken to him like that in front of anyone.

"Elara—"

"Let.

Him.

Speak."

The boy looked at her.

Something shifted in his expression — not surprise.

Almost like recognition.

Like he had known she would say that.

Then he reached slowly into the front pocket of his torn vest and pulled out something small.

A photograph.

Old.

Folded.

Worn at the edges.

He held it up toward the father.

And the father's face went completely white.