No one inside the Wakefield mansion dared to say it out loud, but everyone felt it.
Little Luna Wakefield was fading.
The doctors had been clear—cold, almost mechanical—when they delivered the number that hung in the air like a final sentence. Three months. Maybe less. Three months to live.
And yet there stood Richard Wakefield—billionaire, company owner, a man used to turning problems into numbers and solutions—staring at his daughter as if money, for the first time in his life, refused to obey him.
The house was enormous, spotless, and silent. Not the kind of silence that brings peace, but the kind that brings guilt. A silence that crept into the walls, sat at the table, lay down in the beds, and breathed with you.
Richard had filled the mansion with the very best: private doctors, advanced medical equipment, nurses who rotated weekly, animal therapy, soft music, books, imported toys, colorful blankets, walls painted in Luna’s favorite shade. Everything was perfect…
Except the one thing that mattered.
His daughter’s eyes were distant, unfocused, as if the world existed behind glass.
Since the death of his wife, Richard was no longer the man who appeared on business magazine covers. He stopped attending meetings. Stopped returning calls. Stopped caring about the “empire.” The empire could survive without him.
Luna could not.
His life became a strict routine: waking before dawn, preparing breakfast she barely touched, checking her medications, writing down every tiny change in a notebook—every movement, every breath, every slower blink—as if recording it could hold time in place.
