He fell to his knees before that grave in that silence that only cemeteries can produce. The white flowers in his hand trembled slightly.

Not from the wind … And since he didn’t have time to say that I didn’t have time to do it.

The woman who was in the room there, her name was Clara. They had been married for several years, but life, quarrels, scars… separated them. They parted. Without hatred, but with many unindicated things. We hadn’t talked for a long time. Too long.

He thought she had started a new life, that she was happy. He didn’t know that she carried a secret within herself. A secret that she carried with her until the very end.

Only when they called him and invited him to her funeral did he find out the truth…

He found out the truth. Clara had a daughter. Their daughter.

A little creature that came from their love, at a time when everything was still possible. She never dared to tell him. Out of fear? Out of pain? He would never know for sure. But she left a letter and asked her sister to give it to him. It says:

“I didn’t have the courage to tell you that you’re a father. Her name is Lila. She has your eyes. Take care of her if you can. She deserves to know a father’s love.

He read these poems dozens of times with a heavy heart and trembling hands.

How could he not notice? How could she endure the silence for so long?

At her grave, Clary wasn’t the only one who cried. He cried for the man he was too blind, too proud. He cried for the father who couldn’t be.

But on the day, in the midst of sadness, something new was born: a promise. A promise to catch up, to find Lile, to tell her she wasn’t alone. What her father had. What was here and now.

And, no matter that… love didn’t leave with Clara. It still lives. In Lili.