Libra climbs up on a stool and plucks at my elbow. “Can I have juice?”
“Yeah, sweetheart,” I say, handing her a mug. She slurps. She smiles at me, sleepy, beautiful in that bruise of dawn.
Darun watches her—that way I’ve watched him, that way he watched me in ruins. His gaze softens.
When the eggs are edible, we carry plates to the little dining table—plates mismatched, spoons clinking, toast buttered, eggs a little charred, coffee steaming. That first bite tastes like survival, like fragile beginnings.
Libra chatters about her dream last night—dragons that flew, trees that sang. Darun laughs. I laugh. The sound feels strange and needed in my throat.
After breakfast, we decided to go to the park. The air is soft, fresh, sky pale with promise. Libra tugs us through the walk. Darun holds her hand. I trail behind, watching him watch her. The grass is damp, the scent of wet earth. The park’s trees drip dew. The world feels ninety percent alive again.
He leads us to the swings. I push Libra. High. She shrieks. Her laughter—small, perfect—makes me want to weep. Darun’s silhouette behind her as I push: arms straining, foot planting in grass, coat brushing the blades. He watches her swing, gravity and wind dancing.
I raise my holo-camera without thinking—snap the moment: Darun’s face caught in sunlight beyond the frame, her lifted feet bare, hair dancing. I hide the camera, heart thumping, because this is too precious to risk.
He glances over. Our eyes meet. I flush. He gives a small smile, a tilt. There’s no shame in it. There's a possibility.
We walk back, shoes tapping pavement, sky yawning. She babbles over the next games to play. Darun takes her hand. I walk between them. The distance seems small.
Back home, I brew tea. He flops onto couch. She curls beside him. He has her picture in his eyes while reading mail. I watch. The weight in my chest squeezes.
Night seeps in. We eat dinner lounged between couch cushions. The holostation hums low. We speak in quiet fragments—books, music, nothing lethal.
Afterwards, I retreat to my bedroom to check something. My private archive. I open a folder, “Moments.” I scroll. Then I drag in the photograph I snapped at the park—no caption. Darun’s silhouette behind her swing. Libra arcing through air. The curve of their limbs. Then me, lurking just out of frame.
My fingers linger. I watch lines in her hair, the arc of his back. I hold the image like a living thing.
I don’t post it. I don’t explain. I save it under lock. In the dark I whisper, “This is home.”
Outside, little earthquakes bruise the city—car horns, distant sirens, the hum of life pressing. But inside me, that tremor is not fear. It’s the ground reshaping.
I pull back from the screen, fingers trembling. I blow out the lamp, let the darkness swallow the room. But the image lingers behind my eyelids. The secret is still there, intact, untouched. But now there’s space to bury it or reveal it.
I curl into my bed. The pillow smells like him. I breathe deep. Dream of nothing but laughter and light. For once, not haunted—but alive.
CHAPTER 34
DARUN
When I wake up, the apartment is quiet. The hum of the holostation gently vibrating. The scent of last night’s incense lingers—wood smoke, sandal, memory. I push myself up, body screaming in slow protest, and stretch across the sheets until my hand brushes emptiness beside me. She’s not there. I blink, listen. No child’s laughter yet. No small footfalls. Only silence pressed thick against the windows.
I slip out of bed, padding to the living room. The morning light slants through the curtains, dust motes dancing in the glow. The couch is empty. Then I hear it—a giggle. A sharp, sweet sound. The kind of laugh that makes something inside you uncoil.
I follow the sound down the hall. Libra’s in the little play corner, sitting on the floor with bits of scrap metal and hovercar parts: springs, small plates, nuts and bolts. Her tongue is stuck out in concentration. She’s assembling. I stand behind her shoulder, watch her back. Hair curled from sleep. Eyes bright in half-shadow.
She doesn’t see me at first. She’s deep in design. I inhale: metal, oil, childhood. She twists a gear, fits it into a frame. Itclicks. She beams. “Tanky!” she says, stepping back to admire it on the floor: a toy creature—small, squat, wheels where feet should be, a barrel-like torso. A little machine born from scraps.
I crouch beside her. Her face is luminous.
“That is amazing,” I say.
She holds it out. “See? Tanky can roll!” She gives a gentle shove. It rolls forward. Her grin splits.
Amy appears in the doorway. I can’t look at her yet. I hear the soft intake of breath. Her eyes glisten behind dusk light. She watches us.
I take the toy from her, roll it back. “Hey, Tanky’s got mobility.” I pause. I glance at Amy. Her throat moves.
“She’s incredible,” I say quietly, not turning to you but knowing you hear.
