The Hollow Room
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Weeks passed, but the house didn’t feel like home anymore.
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The walls no longer echoed laughter. The air felt colder, and the rooms, though still filled with furniture, felt strangely empty—as if her father had taken all the light with him when he left.
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Anatasia walked down the hallway in silence. Her fingers traced the edges of the old picture frames, lingering on the ones with her father’s smile. He looked so alive in the photos, so full of stories. But now… they felt like lies—moments frozen in time, mocking the emptiness she carried.
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Her mother had stopped smiling.
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Not the polite kind of smile she wore at dinners and garden parties. The real kind. The one that came with warmth. That smile died the day the doctor left their front door.
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Now, she wore red lipstick but never looked in the mirror. She lit candles but never prayed. She sat at the piano bench without ever playing a note.
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And then one morning, everything changed.
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Anatasia came down to breakfast and saw a man standing in the dining room.
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Strange. Tall. Smiling. A stranger whose eyes darted around like he already belonged.
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Her mother introduced him with a voice so calm, it didn’t sound like her.
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“This is Victor,” she said. “He’s going to stay with us… for a while.”
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Victor had a daughter. Anatasia hadn’t met her yet, but the way her mother spoke—giddy, rehearsed—made it clear that this wasn’t temporary.
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He wasn’t just staying. He was replacing.
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Anatasia stared at the empty chair at the head of the table.
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The one her father always sat in.
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Victor sat there now.
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Her stomach turned. Her hands clenched under the tablecloth. But she said nothing.
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Because she wasn’t just losing a father now.
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She was losing
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