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Chapter 4 - Chapter - 4 worries

 I hang my bag on the hook by the door and step into the kitchen, the faint aroma of vegetable curry greeting me. The dining table is already set, plates steaming with rice and curry, a labor of love I know Papa shouldn't be attempting. I shoot him a sidelong glance as he sits in his wheelchair beside me, his eyes darting nervously between the table and my face. The red, raw burns on his right fingertips catch the light, a silent accusation that makes my chest tighten."I know, I know," he says, his voice shaky with a mix of guilt and defiance.

 "I'm not supposed to do heavy chores."I turn to face him, my hands on my hips.

 "If you know that, why do you keep doing this? Your hand's still healing, Papa. And God only knows if you're using your left hand, which is definitely fractured."

 My voice carries an edge of annoyance, but I keep it low. I'm not yelling—not yet. It's just... why does he insist on pushing himself? What if he hurts himself worse when I'm not here? The thought claws at me, a familiar worry that never quite fades.He looks away, his fingers fidgeting in his lap.

 "I'm bored, Ceira," he mumbles. "I'm trying to be useful, to get better this way."

 "Useful?" I snap, my frustration bubbling over. "You think this is helping? It's not. You're stressing me out. If you're bored, why not try—" I catch myself before I say painting, the word dying on my tongue. His face falls, and I see the flicker of regret in his eyes. Damn it. I know why he avoids painting. It's tied to her—to the mother who left us, the one he blames himself for losing. And here I am, rubbing salt in that wound. Guilt twists in my gut. He's just trying to help, and I'm tearing into him instead of thanking him.His trembling hand reaches for my arm but falters, too unsteady to grip. I crouched to his level, meeting his tired, apologetic eyes.

 "I'm sorry," I say softly, taking both his hands in mine, careful not to press too hard on the burns. "I'm just worried about you. I know you want to help me, but if you get hurt again, I'll blame myself."

 He tilts his head, his gaze softening as he searches my face. "I'm sorry for making you angry, Ceira," he says, his voice steadier now, though a faint tremble lingers. "It's just... helping you is all I can think about. After everything—my mistakes, my family's sins—you're the one suffering most." His words hit like a punch, heavy with the regret he carries every day. He's still haunted by Mom leaving, still wrestling with whether it was his fault or hers. I hate that he feels this way, that he thinks my struggles are his burden. But getting mad won't fix it—it just hurts us both. If he's fighting to give me some kind of happiness, even when it backfires, I can fight for us too.

 "Let's eat together," I say, giving his hands a gentle squeeze. He pulls one hand free and cups my cheek, his touch warm despite the tremors. I manage a small smile, and relief flickers in his eyes, softening the tension in his face. He wheels himself closer to the table as I pull out my chair and sit across from him. I scoop up a bite of his curry and rice, the spices warm and familiar. To break the silence, I ask, "How's physical therapy going? And your garden?"He scratches his hand when I mention therapy, a nervous tic.

 "The ankle's still stiff," he admits. "Arm exercises aren't much better." But his eyes light up when he shifts to gardening.

 "You won't believe it, Ceira. The okra flowers are blooming—bright yellow, like little suns. And some tomatoes are red, though the rest aren't ripe yet." His voice brims with pride, and I can't help but smile at his enthusiasm.He starts gathering empty bowls, a small gesture that feels both sweet and exasperating. 

 "I'll check out the garden after I do the dishes," I say, stacking plates to load into the dishwasher. He wheels over to grab tissues from the counter, handing me a few to wipe the table. I scrub at a stubborn spot, then tease, "Hope the garden's not a total disaster."He freezes, his eyes widening. "Uh... maybe don't go out there," he says, his voice tinged with panic. 

 I smirk, already knowing why. Teasing Papa when he's flustered is too easy."Why not?" I ask, keeping my tone innocent.His face twists into a comical mix of guilt and desperation, his fingers scratching nervously at his neck. "It's, uh... not ready," he stammers, eyes darting everywhere but at me.

 I laugh softly. "So it's a World War out there, huh?" By that, I mean the usual chaos he creates when he gardens—overturned soil, tangled vines, a glorious mess. He nods sheepishly, and I shake my head, still chuckling. I let him have his gardening because it keeps him grounded, keeps him from drowning in old memories or reaching for a bottle. It's his way of breathing easier, and I won't take that from him.Papa's always had a bad habit of turning to cigarettes and whiskey when stress or old memories claw at him, trapping him in his own head. He quit smoking after I graduated high school, but that day still stings. We had a fight—one of those raw, ugly ones that left scars. It wasn't even a big deal in hindsight, just embarrassing.

 He forgot my graduation, too caught up in work to show up while everyone else's parents clapped and snapped photos. I came home that evening, fuming, only to find him stumbling in half an hour later, reeking of cigarettes, his eyes bloodshot from stress. I tried to swallow my anger—how could he forget something so important?—but when I confronted him, he didn't apologize. Instead, he yelled, calling me a rebel, ungrateful. The words I flung back were worse: "That's why Mom left. You're reckless and selfish." Then I ran.

 I was just a teenager, craving love and support, maybe too dramatic for some, but Papa was my only anchor. I wanted to be mature, to rationalize—he's stressed, he's got work, don't blame him—but one question kept gnawing at me: Am I enough? Even now, as an adult, those doubts creep back. But I've learned some things are better let go. That night, he found me hiding under a bridge, too stubborn to run far. He looked wrecked, his hands trembling as he pulled me into a hug, his breath shaky against my hair. I can still feel the weight of that moment, the way we clung to each other. I was just a kid, after all.

 "What kind of work are you gonna do?" Papa's voice yanks me back to the present, his tone soft but curious.I take a deep breath, steadying myself. "I'm gonna be a photographer's assistant," I say, carefully omitting the part about the photographer being a killer. If Papa knew, he'd have a heart attack.His face lights up, a bright, hopeful smile spreading across it. I can read his thoughts: What a great job, a normal job with beautiful scenery. I almost laughed at the irony. Beautiful? Sure, if you count the women in his photos—and the fact that they're dead. Models? Only if "model" means victim and dead bodies.I haven't read the full file, so who knows what else is in there and more there secrets to reveal.

 "That's a great job, Ceira," he says, his voice warm with pride. 

 "You'll be an amazing assistant, surrounded by stunning views and models."I nod, biting back a smirk. "Yeah, who knows what I'll see there." The truth hangs heavy in my chest—I have no idea what horrors await. He pats my arm, his touch gentle but encouraging.

 "Hit some slack, kid. You need it," he says, grinning as he wheels himself toward his room. Once he's out of sight, I tilt my head back, eyes closed, and let out a long, shaky breath. The weight of tomorrow presses down on me. I still have to convince a killer to hire me as his assistant. The stress is suffocating. He's a monster, a bastard, and yet I'm the one who has to impress him? I already hate him, and we haven't even met.I drag myself upstairs, each step heavier than the last. When I reach my bedroom, I collapse onto the mattress, my legs giving out as I hit the edge. I can't believe I made it through today—dodging that eerie angel, navigating Papa's stubborn heart, and now facing a file about a murderer. My stomach churns. I'm not going to lie—I'm terrified. What if I walk into that interview and he takes one look at me, decides I'm not worth his time, and—slice—ends it right there? Or worse, what if he drags me into some dark room, sneering at my "ugly face" for daring to cross his path? Okay, maybe I'm spiraling, am I watching too many thrillers? . But I can't afford to walk in blind. I need to read that file, learn everything about him, or he'll toss me out of his studio—or worse—before I even get a chance I'll be in my grave.

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