Julia was not a specialist, not a doctor, and certainly not a billionaire, but she carried her own grief quietly and observantly.
A young widow who had lost her infant child, Julia had learned to watch closely because the smallest details once meant survival.
From her first days in the penthouse, she noticed inconsistencies that others had ignored for years.
Luna tilted her head toward windows, paused at reflections, and reacted to visual movement with subtle but undeniable precision.
These were not coincidences, nor were they tricks of imagination fueled by sympathy.
When Julia dropped a glass and saw Luna flinch before hearing the sound, something inside her refused to stay silent.
She began testing gently, without pressure, without expectation, guided only by intuition and quiet curiosity.
Colored scarves, moving hands, shifting light, all revealed responses that defied medical certainty.
The moment Luna whispered, “I like the yellow one,” reality cracked open violently.
Blind children do not describe colors, and grief does not explain neurological impossibilities.
Julia faced a terrifying realization: either every expert was wrong, or someone had allowed a lie to become permanent truth.
When Julia confronted Richard, she did so carefully, knowing that truth can feel like an attack when it threatens a carefully built reality.
His reaction was not anger, but exhaustion, the kind that comes from years of emotional surrender.
He defended the doctors, the hospitals, the specialists, because questioning them meant reopening wounds he had sealed shut.
Yet doubt, once planted, spreads faster than certainty ever could.
That night, Richard watched Luna more closely than he ever had before.
He noticed how she hesitated at shadows, how she turned toward lamps, how her silence suddenly felt less passive and more suppressed.
The question became unavoidable and deeply unsettling: what if Luna had never been blind at all?
