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Leka’s forest lodge, his intention to leave her there to be raised in the warmth and safety of their home, but a cry of alarm from the little girl stayed him. She didn’t want him to go, and besides, with an extra mouth to feed, Leka needed his help to scratch a living from the small timber yard he’d set up on the outskirts of the forest.
    For better or worse, it seemed Mik’s time to grieve in isolation had come to an end, and it was a consequence he couldn’t bring himself to resent. The name given to the baby girl by the parents who’d loved her enough to send her away was long forgotten, but Mik named her Arta. She shared no blood with his father, but the stubborn way she planted her feet on the ground when she was cross never failed to remind him of Artan.
    She reminded him of Isa too, with her quiet determination and wide, curious eyes, but with time, the joy the little girl brought him began to ease the pain of all he’d lost. Isa had laid down his life so he could live, and now Arta had given him back a reason try.
    In the years that followed, Mik helped his sister and his oldest friend raise their children. He marveled as he watched them grow, often awed that they’d been gifted with such innocence and beauty out of so much pain and loss. He knew he would never father children of his own, but as the years passed, he found it mattered less and less. He loved his nephew and Arta as though they were born of his own seed, and he wanted nothing more than to cherish and protect them from the cruelty that had torn his own life apart. With their unwitting help, he slowly learned to function again. When Arta began to call him Papa, it seemed he’d found his reason to live.
    The war in Kosovo had been over for just four years the day Arta came running out to the timber yard to warn him that a strange man was calling his name. An ingrained tension prickled Mik’s skin. He lay down his axe and reached for Arta’s hand. Leka did most of their business in town, so it was rare that anyone approached the lodge. Wary, Mik considered retrieving the pistol he had concealed in his toolkit, but unwilling to frighten Arta, he left it behind.
    He lifted Arta to his hip and made his way back towards the wooden lodge they called home. He ruffled his almost-daughter’s dark curls as he walked. The little girl feigned a pout, but he knew she enjoyed the affectionate gesture. For a long time, Arta had known no such thing and her rare, enchanting smile was almost enough to make him forget there was another soul in the world but her.
    Until the forest cleared and he saw the tall figure that awaited him in the distance.
    Mik froze. His stomach lurched, his heart stopped beating, and it was all he could do to stay on his feet.
    “Mik?”
    The shaky, tentative voice called him from far away…so far away it was distorted by the time it reached his ears. He tried to respond, but his voice failed him. He realized too late the forest was tilting around him.
    Strong hands steadied him. He felt Arta being pried from his arms, and Arta’s frightened voice calling his name before he turned and fled into the forest.
     

Chapter Eight
     
     
    The little girl squirmed in Isa’s arms as Mik disappeared into the forest. “Papa! Papa!”
    Isa absorbed the term of endearment. Papa… but that meant…the girl had dark hair and olive skin…but, no. It couldn’t be. He refused to believe it.
    He heard footsteps behind him and spun around. Leka and Rea ran into the clearing. Isa’s legs wavered. Another dark haired child—a boy this time—was just a heartbeat behind them.
    Rea’s hands flew to her mouth, her eyes wide with confused recognition.
    Leka stumbled, his face much the same. “I—Isa?”
    “It’s me, Leka.”
    The young girl in Isa’s arms fought to be free. Isa released her and she ran to Rea, her sobs eerily resonant in the cleared area of the forest.
    “He hurt Papa. He hurt my Papa!”
    Rea reached for the tearful child