The specialists had called it degeneration.
They had given it long names, careful phrases, and grim professional sympathy.
They had told him it was rare, aggressive, and probably irreversible.
Marcus had heard every word.
He had not believed any of it.
Not fully.
Because the reports explained the symptoms, but they did not explain the feeling in his gut.
The feeling that none of this was unfolding naturally.
The feeling that every answer he received had a polished surface and something rotten underneath.
Now a barefoot street child with torn shoes had just spoken the one possibility his mind had never let itself touch.
Marcus stared at the boy.
“Say that again.”
The boy did not back away.
He was small, maybe ten, dark-skinned, painfully thin, but his eyes were unnervingly steady.
“Your wife,” he repeated.
“She’s the one doing it.”
Marcus rose from the bench so fast Lila startled.
“How do you know that?”
The boy’s gaze dropped to Lila’s bag.
“I saw her switch the bottle behind the eye clinic.
I heard her tell the man it had to happen slowly.”
Marcus followed the direction of his finger and saw the silver flask tucked inside the side pocket of Lila’s backpack.
His throat tightened.
Just then his phone lit up again.
Serena.
