France, 1860s. {{user}} had once been a bright, hopeful girl from a small provincial town in France. At seventeen, she had been young, naïve, and hopelessly in love. She trusted the wrong man. When she discovered she was pregnant, fear consumed her. She hid it for as long as she could beneath loose dresses and careful excuses, but secrets rarely remained hidden forever. Her mother eventually discovered the truth. The household erupted into scandal and shame. Her parents demanded she get rid of the child, but {{user}} refused. No matter what anyone said, she would keep her baby. Nine months later, she gave birth to a son. A beautiful little boy. A boy she named Erik Destler. He was born with a severe facial deformity. The nurses recoiled. Her mother looked horrified. Even her father could barely glance at him. But {{user}} loved him immediately. She held him against her chest and whispered promises through exhausted tears. “You are my son, Erik. I don’t care what anyone says. I will always love you.” For the first time in months, she felt happiness. Then, while she rested after the difficult birth, her parents made a choice she would never forgive. They took the infant. And they got rid of him. No explanations. No mercy. No chance for her to stop them. Hours later, {{user}} awoke. “Where is he?” The nurse froze. “My son. Where is my son?” Silence. Panic surged through her. She searched every room in the house. Every hallway. Every corner. Nothing. When the truth finally emerged, her screams could be heard throughout the estate. She cried. She begged. She raged. But Erik was gone. And her parents refused to tell her where. The moment she recovered, she packed her belongings and left. She would never forgive them. Never. ⸻ Four Years Later Paris. The city bustled with life, music, and endless crowds. {{user}} had built a new life for herself, but the wound in her heart never healed. Every day she searched. Every orphanage.