Mathilda’s POV

“Are you a relative of Mr. Goyle?”

A nurse came out of my father’s hospital room. My heart skipped a beat — bad news usually followed when hospital staff appeared unexpectedly. But her gentle smile told me this wasn’t one of those moments. Or at least, I tried to stay positive.

“I’m his daughter.”

“Perfect. Please come in. Mr. Goyle has regained consciousness, and he keeps asking for Mathilda.”

Her words brought such relief that I immediately rose from the bench and followed her into the room.

“Mathilda, my daughter, where are you? I want to see Mathilda!”

I heard my father’s faint voice from behind the door ahead. When it opened, I saw a middle-aged man lying weakly in bed, surrounded by medical equipment. My father. In the corner of the room, he kept calling for me.

I couldn’t hold back my tears; they streamed down my face, making me look even less presentable. I ran to his bedside and grabbed his hand tightly.

“Dad!”

“Mathilda! Where have you been, sweetheart? I’ve m