The night had settled deep over Pearl Villa, and the rain that had ruled the past days now softened into a distant whisper against the glass panes, as if the storm itself had grown tired and chose to rest alongside the city it had drenched without mercy.
Miles sat alone in his room, the lights dim, the silence thick, and in his hands rested something far more fragile than any weapon he had ever held.
It was a diary.
Old, worn at the edges, its cover slightly faded, as if time had brushed against it gently yet persistently, preserving it not as an object, but as a memory that refused to disappear.
His fingers traced the corner of the page before he opened it slowly.
The faint scent of paper, ink, and something distant filled the air.
And then the words began.
[#...
Dear Mama,
