I was standing at the entrance to our nine-story brick apartment building, a heavy duffel bag in one hand and a pale blue bundle containing my newborn son, Noah, in the other. My legs weren’t buckling from the exhaustion of four sleepless days and nights in the maternity ward, but from a primal, animal terror that had encased my entire body in a shell of ice. It was because of the old woman. She had materialized from the thick autumn mist as if she were a ghost, a specter in a threadbare, dark gray coat with frayed sleeves. She grabbed my arm with wiry, surprisingly strong fingers and hissed directly in my face, her breath smelling of some strange, bitter herb. “Don’t you dare go in there,” she rasped, her eyes boring into mine. “Do you hear me, girl? Call your father. Immediately. Right now.” I tried to pull my arm free, instinctively clutching Noah tighter to my chest, shielding him with my body. There was something wrong about this woman, something unsettling. She wasn’t like the usual grandmothers who sat on the benches by the entrance, gossiping about the neighbors. Her eyes were piercing, almost black, burning with a fierce inner fire. Her violet-blue scarf shadowed her face, highlighting the deep wrinkles etched like cracks in dry earth, though her grip was like steel. Our suburban district had its share of fortune-tellers near the subway, but none had ever ambushed new mothers with cryptic warnings. “Please, let me go,” I whispered, glancing around the eerily empty courtyard. The cold October wind whipped yellow leaves across the wet asphalt as a crow cawed ominously from a rooftop. Though it was only four-thirty, a heavy blanket of clouds plunged everything into gray twilight. My husband, Daniel, was supposed to meet me. He had promised he would be here, with a taxi, roses, and blue balloons. But that morning, while I was packing joyfully, he had called—his voice clipped, businesslike. “Last-minute business trip to Denver. Huge contract. The client insists on meeting in person. I’m flying at two.” He apologized, said he hated missing this, but work was work. I had cried into my pillow, humiliated and hurt. “Listen carefully,” the old woman repeated, gripping tighter. “Your father is alive. Do you hear me? Alive. Call him. Use his old number. The one still saved in your phone.” A glacial fear crawled through me. My father, Robert, had died eight years ago. A sudden heart attack. I remembered every detail. His death had shattered my world, nearly made me drop out of college. My mother, Helen, had become a ghost of herself. “Are you mocking me?” I trembled. “My father is dead. Eight years. Just stop. My baby is getting cold.” “He’s alive,” she insisted, eyes unwavering. “Call. And don’t you dare enter that apartment. There is mortal danger inside. For you and your child.” Noah whimpered softly. Exhaustion, hormones, and a strange instinct pressed on me. Something deep inside screamed: Listen to her. Do not go inside. Call your father. I walked to the old green bench beneath the bare maple tree, sat down carefully, and pulled out my phone. My hands shook violently as I scrolled to “R”—there he was: “Dad.” I pressed call. The ringing stretched endlessly—one, two, three, four, five… On the sixth ring, someone answered. A click. Static. Then— “Emily? Honey? Is that you?” My heart stopped. It was his voice. “Dad?” I croaked. “Dad, is it really you?” “It’s me, sweetheart.” His voice trembled. “Thank God. I was afraid you wouldn’t call in time. Emily, listen—are you home? Are you inside the building?” “I’m outside… on a bench… with the baby. Dad—how? You died.” “I’ll explain everything later. No time now. Listen word for word: do not go into that apartment. Take Noah, your things, and walk away. Go somewhere public. A café. A library. Anywhere but home. Do you hear me?” I stared at the fifth-floor windows of our apartment—our home. “Dad, why? What’s in there?” His breath was unsteady. “A bomb, Emily. A homemade explosive. Set to detonate when the apartment door opens.

Someone planned to kill you today. You and the baby.” My blood froze. “Who? Why?” “Your husband,” Dad said. My world shattered. “Daniel arranged everything.” “No—he loves me—he was so excited for the baby—” “He was pretending,” Dad said gently. “He’s been having an affair for a year and a half with a coworker, Sophie Riley. He plans to marry her after you’re gone. There’s a $300,000 life insurance policy in your name. You signed it six months ago. He told you it was required for the mortgage.” I remembered signing those papers. I had trusted him completely. Dad continued, “He’s drowning in gambling debt. Killing you erases everything. The apartment becomes his. The insurance pays off the mortgage. And he’s free to start a new life without a child he never wanted.” “But… how do you know about the bomb?” I whispered. “Because I’ve been undercover for eight years,” Dad said softly. “I had to fake my death to protect you and your mother. I was a witness in a major corruption case. Witness protection required… disappearing.” My breath caught. “Who was in the casket?” “An unidentified man of similar build. It was the only way. If anyone knew I was alive, you and your mother would’ve been targeted. I’m so sorry.” “And the old woman?” I asked, glancing at her. “My colleague,” Dad said. “Agent Maria Evans. I asked her to watch the building.” “Put Maria on the phone,” Dad said. She spoke briefly, then turned to me. “Your father wants you to go to Daisy Café on the next street. I’ll escort you. Bomb squad and police are on their way.” We walked away from everything—my home, my life, my illusions. Daisy Café was warm, smelling of pastries and coffee. Maria checked her phone. “Bomb squad is on site. Your father will be here in five minutes.” Five minutes until I saw my father alive. The door opened. A tall man in a dark jacket walked in. His face older, thinner—but unmistakable. My dad. “Emily,” he whispered, rushing toward me. I collapsed into his arms, sobbing. “I’m so sorry,” he murmured into my hair. He looked at Noah with trembling wonder. “My grandson… may I?” I handed Noah to him. Tears streamed down his face. Maria approached. “Bomb disarmed. It was real. Enough to destroy the entire floor. Daniel Carter has been arrested at Denver Airport.” Three weeks passed in a surreal haze. I moved back to my childhood home with Mom. Dad stayed with us, sleeping on a cot in my old room, rebuilding the family we once lost. Mom’s reunion with Dad was a storm—rage, disbelief, grief—but slowly, painfully, healing began. Dad adored Noah, making up for the years he’d lost. The trial was swift. Daniel pleaded guilty. The evidence—payments to the hitman, messages to Sophie discussing their future after I was “gone”—was overwhelming. Sophie received eight years for assisting him. The apartment was sold; the remaining money went into a trust for Noah. One snowy December evening, I rocked Noah in the living room, listening to my parents talking in the kitchen. “I never stopped loving you, Helen,” my father said, voice breaking. “Everything I did was to keep you and Emily safe.” A long silence. Then my mother’s quiet sob. They were healing. We all were. I looked at Noah’s tiny sleeping face. My world had been shattered, but from the ruins, something real was growing—my family, reborn. My father was alive. My son was safe. My mother was learning to smile again. Outside, snow fell softly, covering the world in white. Inside me, for the first time in years, a fragile peace began to bloom. The storm was over. We had survived.

How do you think Emily’s relationship with her father evolved after discovering the truth about his faked death, and what impact did it have on her trust in others, especially Daniel?