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Every day was busy yet fulfilling. Meetings, decisions, deals — the usual hum of a businessman’s life—balanced by quiet family dinners under the vine-draped veranda, and walks through the garden as Amelia clutched his hand and asked questions about the world. Everything was good. Everything was smooth.

Until one day in 1980.

That day, a Tuesday, Mr. Lay remembered vividly. It was Amelia’s wedding day with David Hutcherson, a young man who had quickly won the family’s approval. David was tall, with an easy smile and a calm, steady presence that made people feel at ease. He came from a respected family of bankers from the neighboring city — wealthy enough to match the Lay name, but humble enough not to flaunt it.

The villa had been transformed overnight: white silk banners hung from the balconies, the garden bloomed brighter as if the flowers knew, and staff bustled from dawn to dusk preparing for the grand event. Guests in elegant attire filled the grounds, a string quartet played softly by the fountain, and laughter mingled with the clink of champagne glasses.

Mr. Lay stood by the balcony, watching his daughter in her wedding gown step out into the garden, her face radiant beneath a veil, her arm linked with her mother’s. He felt a swell of pride, and a strange ache he couldn’t name.

And as Mr. Lay gazed at his daughter walking toward her future, he felt the weight of the years behind him and the uncertainty of the years ahead.

Just as the priest announced that they were about to accept each other in marriage, a sudden scream—s harp, panicked, unmistakably human — pierced the quiet air from deep within the villa.

“Ahhh!”

The sound shattered the stillness. A gasp rippled through the guests. Heads turned toward the house; whispers bloomed like wildfire. The priest lowered his hands, frowning.