Dream sat by the window, sunlight resting softly on her knees.
Her hands cradled her belly, thumbs moving in slow, unconscious circles. The world outside was calm—too calm. Birds sang. The town breathed. Life went on as if nothing fragile existed inside this room.
She smiled faintly.
"Papa is strange," she murmured, her voice barely louder than the light in the room.
Her fingers paused, then continued moving.
"He's very brave," she said. "Braver than he lets anyone see." A small laugh escaped her lips, tired but warm. "But sometimes… Papa hides."
Dream leaned back against the wall.
"He thinks hiding will protect us," she continued softly. "He thinks if we can't see him, we won't worry." Her smile trembled. "He's wrong, of course. But Papa has always been like that."
She closed her eyes.
"He watches over us even when he shouldn't. Even when it hurts him." Her hand pressed a little more firmly against her belly. "Especially then."
The air behind her felt warm.
Dream didn't turn.
"When you're born," she whispered, "you might not see him right away." Her voice softened further. "But don't be scared. Papa is always nearby. Always listening."
Her throat tightened.
"He just doesn't know how to forgive himself yet. He thinks he committed a crime."
She opened her eyes and looked down at her belly, tears blurring her vision.
"So if you ever feel safe for no reason," she said quietly, "or warm when you shouldn't… that's Papa."
Dream smiled through the ache in her chest.
"That's Papa hiding."
The warmth lingered.
Just for a moment, it pressed closer—careful, restrained, trembling with something unsaid.
Dream breathed in slowly.
"It's okay," she whispered. "We're still here."
And though no one answered, she knew she had been heard.
Ron stood beside the door.
Dream's words still echoed in the room, lingering like wounds that refused to close.
Papa who hides.
The moment she said it, something inside him fractured.
His hands trembled.
He clenched them into fists, nails biting into his palms, as if pain might anchor him—might stop the flood rising in his chest. It didn't.
His breath hitched, sharp and uneven, but he forced it down. No sound. Not here. Not now.
He bent forward slightly, shoulders tightening, as if the weight of the world had finally settled where it belonged—on him.
Her kindness was worse than anger.
Her understanding cut deeper than blame ever could.
She hadn't cursed him.
She hadn't begged him to stay.
She hadn't even asked why.
She had accepted him.
And that broke him.
Ron's vision blurred.
Tears slid down his face, slow and silent, disappearing before they could fall. He pressed a hand over his mouth, biting down hard enough to taste blood, desperate to keep the sob trapped inside his chest.
I'm sorry.
The words screamed in his head, over and over, but his lips never moved.
He looked at her—at the curve of her belly, at the way she cradled it so protectively—and his knees nearly gave out.
His daughter.
His wife.
Both so close.
Both untouchable.
Ron lowered himself to the floor without a sound, one knee hitting first, then the other. His head bowed, forehead hovering just above the ground, like a sinner afraid to pray.
His shoulders shook.
Still—no sound.
Because if he made even the smallest noise, he knew he would break completely.
And if he broke…
He might reach for her.
He might stop hiding.
And he wasn't ready to face what he'd done.
Ron stayed there for a long time.
Crying without voice.
Hurting without permission.
Loving without the right to be seen.
When he finally lifted his head, his eyes were red, empty, and resolved.
He wiped his face with shaking hands and stood slowly, invisibility clinging to him like a second skin.
he looked at her one. Then at their child.
"I am sorry." he thought.
And Ron stayed near, watching over Dream.