The Moreno estate buzzed with activity as servants prepared for Ryder's birthday celebration, the air thick with the scent of vanilla from the towering cake in the dining hall. Through the chaos, Rafael Moreno spotted his daughter seated alone in the corner, hunched over a canvas with the专注 concentration of an artist twice her age. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, casting golden streaks across her dark hair as she hummed a familiar melody—Dania's favorite lullaby.

Setting his champagne glass aside, Rafael moved silently across the marble floors, pausing to observe her small hand guiding the paintbrush with surprising confidence. The faint scratch of bristles against canvas and the distant laughter of party guests created a soundscape that seemed to wrap around them like a cocoon. He noticed the way her tongue poked out slightly in concentration, exactly as Dania's had when she was focused on a task.

"What are you creating, my little artist?" he asked softly, kneeling beside her chair so their eyes met at the same level. The wood of the antique chair creaked gently under his weight.

She looked up, her eyes wide and bright with excitement, smudges of paint decorating her cheeks like colorful freckles. "It's you, Papa," she whispered, carefully turning the canvas toward him. The portrait captured him with remarkable accuracy—the furrow between his brows that appeared when he was thoughtful, the slight smile that rarely reached his eyes since Dania's death, even the grey at his temples that she'd mixed special paint to match.

Rafael felt a catch in his throat, his vision suddenly blurring at the edges. The world around them faded—the clink of glasses, the murmur of voices, even the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock disappeared. In that moment, there was only his daughter's expectant face and the imperfect yet perfect rendering of himself that she'd created with such obvious love.