Two months passed in the blink of an eye.

  In the quiet of the piano room, Clarissa sat beside Atticus, listening carefully as he played through the next song. His fingers glided over the keys smoothly—except for a few off-notes that struck a dissonant chord in the otherwise fluid melody.

  Clarissa's brows knitted slightly. She leaned in, her voice gentle but curious. “Something’s tripping you up there. Do you know which part?”

  For someone like Atticus, who could usually pick things up instantly, it was odd. He consistently stumbled over a particular note in each piece.

  He didn’t answer right away. His slender fingers hovered above the keys, but his gaze flickered, landing on Clarissa’s hands—pale, delicate, almost translucent under the soft light.

  The boy had finally started to grow taller recently. His once-thin frame had begun to fill out, and there was a softness to his face that hadn’t been there before.

  “I’m just not practiced enough,” he said finally, his tone flat.

  Clarissa smiled. “That’s perfectly normal. Two months isn’t long—and I may have rushed you.”

  She paused, then added, “By the way, your birthday’s the day after tomorrow. Is there anything you’d like? A gift, maybe?”

  Atticus blinked, surprised. If she hadn’t mentioned it, he would’ve forgotten entirely.

  The truth was, even Belle had never known his actual birthdate. She’d simply chosen the day she found him—and called it his birthday. But ever since he discovered Belle wasn’t his real mother, he’d stopped caring. Stopped remembering.

  His eyes dropped, veiling the flicker of emotion. “It’s not really my birthday,” he said softly.

  Clarissa heard the shift in his tone. Without hesitation, she reached out and took his hand. “Atticus,” she said softly, “look at me.”

  He did. Her voice was firm, but kind. “That was the day your mother found you, right? Then maybe that’s even more meaningful. That day, she gave you another life. It’s your rebirth.”

  “Rebirth?” he repeated, puzzled.

  Clarissa nodded. “A second chance. A new beginning. That’s worth celebrating—maybe even more than the day you were born.”

  He didn’t speak. But something flickered in his eyes—some fragile ember stirred by the mention of Belle. He inhaled, long and slow. “Okay,” he murmured. “I understand. I’ll keep using that day.”

  Clarissa smiled again, a warm, genuine curve of her lips. “Good. Now tell me—what kind of present do you want?”

  “Anything’s fine,” he said quickly.

  “In that case, you keep practicing a little more. I’ll bring you some snacks. We’ll pick up again after we eat.” She left with a cheerful spring in her step, and Atticus sat alone, watching the space where she’d been.

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  Besides Belle, Clarissa was the only one who had ever remembered his birthday.

  She had no obligation, no tie to him. She didn’t owe him anything. And yet—she cared. Was she like this with everyone?

  Atticus returned his fingers to the keys. With a breath, the music began to flow again. This time, not a single note was off. The melody was seamless—better than Clarissa had ever played it.

  He glanced at the sheet music. She always chose songs that were soft and gentle, peaceful and warm—meant to soothe the soul. Nothing dramatic. No crescendos, no sharp high notes.

  But as the final note faded into silence, he didn’t feel soothed. He felt... restless.

  A beat passed. Then, without a word, he snapped the piano cover closed and walked out of the room.

  Atticus had just stepped out of the room when Clarissa came downstairs carrying a tray of snacks Clementine had prepared.“Atticus? What’s wrong? Done practicing already?”

  “I’m just a little tired. Thought I’d rest for a bit.”

  “Alright, go ahead and get some rest in your room then.” She handed him the tray. “Here, snacks. Don’t forget to bring the bowl back when you’re done.”

  He accepted the tray almost without thinking, but his gaze lingered on her for a moment.

  Clarissa had changed into casual clothes. No makeup—just sunscreen, her skin looking clean and natural. There was something refreshing about her like this.

  Without thinking, he asked, “Where are you going?”

  “Phoenix asked me to hang out. Do you want to come along?”

  Phoenix had been inviting Clarissa out a lot lately, and Clarissa never refused.

  Atticus’s brows furrowed slightly. He knew Phoenix was a woman, but whenever he saw her getting close to Clarissa, it stirred something unpleasant in his chest. He couldn’t explain it—maybe he just didn’t like Phoenix.

  So this time, he said coldly, “I’m coming.”

  Clarissa smiled. “Then go change. She’ll be here soon.”

  “Alright.”

  By the time Phoenix’s car pulled up, she spotted Atticus trailing behind Clarissa immediately.

  He was almost up to Clarissa’s shoulder now, clearly still growing. He was going to be taller than her before long.

  Phoenix pulled her sunglasses down slightly, eyeing them both with mild disbelief. “Clarissa… you’re really bringing the kid with you?”

  “He’s always cooped up with books at home. I thought it’d be good for him to get out.”

  Phoenix didn’t argue. “Fine. Just make sure he doesn’t wander off. He’s the type old creeps love to target.”

  Her words made Atticus’s expression darken slightly, but Clarissa just laughed softly, helplessly. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep a close eye on him.”

  They arrived at Phoenix’s usual hangout—a high-end entertainment club she frequented.

  Last time, it was racing. This time? Bowling.

  Phoenix was a natural athlete. Every ball she threw hit its mark, one perfect strike after another.

  Cheers erupted around them with every shot. Nearly every conversation in the room drifted toward her.

  “Mr. Phoenix, you’ve been around a lot lately. When are you heading back?”

  “I’ve already finished all my credits. No rush. Maybe second half of the year.”

  Phoenix sipped her wine after adjusting the finger gloves she wore to play. Truth was, she wanted to stay longer—just to spend more time with Clarissa.

  But she didn’t say that out loud. Instead, her gaze drifted toward the woman in question.

  Clarissa had dressed simply today: a white chiffon blouse tucked into loose-fitting jeans—a color Phoenix couldn’t remember ever seeing on her. It made her look... softer somehow.

  At the moment, she was smiling gently, crouched slightly as she spoke to Atticus. She looked so patient, so natural. Phoenix never realized Clarissa was this good with kids.

  Clarissa had changed. Maybe it was subtle, but Phoenix could feel it. As if sensing her stare, Clarissa looked up, meeting Phoenix’s eyes across the room.

  Phoenix didn’t look away. She stood up slowly and walked over. “You really brought your little burden with you, huh? Not sick of him yet?”

  Clarissa gave a faint smile. “Not at all. Atticus is well-behaved. And you know I’m not good at this kind of thing.”

  Clarissa had always been the brain, not the brawn. Back when they were kids, Phoenix took first place in every sport. Clarissa? Dead last.

  The original Clarissa had always been proud—proud to the point of arrogance. Back then, if Phoenix smiled at her while holding a medal, she'd scowl and chase her away in a rage.

  Phoenix hadn’t forgotten that. She clicked her tongue, then looked toward Atticus, who stood silently nearby. “Hey, little guy. Want to give it a shot?”

  Atticus glanced at her. “Alright.”