Her voice is low, soft, “She’s ours.”
I turn and meet her eyes. There’s something fragile and fierce there—motherhood, memory, hope. But she doesn’t correct me aloud. Not yet.
We spend the morning building together—libra and me and Amy tinkering in that play corner. She hands me springs. I cut small plates. Amy teaches her to sand edges. I watch the two of them, heart jostling. I realize with a shock: I am part of this. I belong.
At midday we take Tanky to the courtyard. She wheels it ahead. She races it under trees, over grass patches. Its wheels scuff dirt. Libra runs beside it, laughs. Amy trails behind. I push it gently from behind, catching her elbow when it wobbles. The air smells of jasmine and sun-warmed pavement. Children’s voices echo off nearby apartments.
Libra stops. Twists to stand between me and Amy. She wraps her arms around both our legs. I bend. Face her. She chitter-squeaks, “I love when you build things, Daddy.”
I nod. My throat thickens. I press my fingers to the scrapes on her knee. “Always.”
Amy leans in, whispers to me, soft, “I love watching you with her.”
I look at her. I press my palm to her cheek. She leans.
The rest of the afternoon folds into laughter: Tanky races, we gather scraps, she hugs both of us at sunset.
That night, when everything else is dark, she takes my hand and leads me down the hall. The door to her room is cracked lit by a teensy lamp. She opens it wider, steps inside. She blinks. I step in.
The air smells cool—linen, night, lingering perfume. The bed is made, pillows fluffed, soft light pooling. She turns so the lamp is behind me. I stare at her silhouette for a moment: hair down, shoulders bare in soft fabric. The space between us hums.
She steps close. I close the distance. Her skin is warm. I smell her shampoo, something floral. I taste longing on my tongue. She presses her lips to mine. Soft. Tentative at first, then deeper. This isn’t desperation. This is home. This is trust. She threads arms around me; I hold her, feeling strength in softness.
We move slowly, debris of war falling away. There is no urgency. There is only the hush between breaths, the press of skin, the electricity in small touches. She parts lips; I taste her breath. She murmurs. I brush hair off her neck. She sighs. The bed creaks under the weight of memory.
She guides me down, pulls me over sheets. I kneel in. She kisses my scars. I trace her spine—past the curve, the hollow. The scent of warm skin, of her heartbeat pulsing under fingers. Every nerve alive. We slip together.
Later, she holds me as I sleep. Her breath soft on my shoulder. Her head tucked into the curve of my neck. For once, the ghosts don’t come. For once, I sleep. Not waiting. Not haunted. Just here, in her arms.
Dawn breaks by slanting light right under the shades into my eyes. I wake—sun slanting pink. I lie still. She’s beside me, peaceful. The toy scrap pieces scattered across the floor downstairs, Tanky somewhere. I realize I’m smiling. My bones feel lighter. My heart feels full.
I cradle her. She stirs. She murmurs my name. The secret in the room—the lines unspoken—hang between us. But now between flesh and breath, there is love. There is trust. There is a place that is ours.
I drift off, thinking: maybe the armor is behind me now. Tonight, I will sleep without fear.
CHAPTER 35
AMY
When I pull into the back parking lot, the usual roar of crews and camera motors is gone. Headlights carve pale yellow pools on the asphalt. The studio looms, silent and waiting. Darun steps beside me in the damp air, his eyes catching each shadowed doorway. He rubs at his coat—still new, stiff—and I wonder if it’s beginning to break in him, mold to his shape.
I lead him to the rear entrance. The door unlocks with a sharp hiss. Inside, we walk into muted stillness. The air tastes of cold concrete and cleaning solvent, a familiar smell I’ve missed without ever thinking to notice. The corridors are dark, machines idle, cables dangling like vines. The hum of air vents is the only living thing.
I press my fingers to the wall, tracing along the cable conduits. “This is the behind-the-scenes you never saw,” I say quietly. He nods, like he already senses everything hidden beneath the facade.
We round a corner. A control room window. My hand rests lightly on the glass. Inside, monitors sleep—black screens and dark consoles. He steps close, breath fogging the glass. “Feelslike stepping into a dormant beast,” he murmurs. I rest my palm over his. “One that’s going to roar again.”
We push through into the main studio. The stage is cavernous in the dark. The scent of polished aluminum, velvet curtains, twisted cables, and heavy curtains lingers. I reach out and switch on one rig light. The stage floods in pale white. Cameras snap into place overhead, tracks hum alive. The echo of that activation sends tremors through me—and through Darun.
He squints, steps forward, eyes flicking from lens to floor, cables to stage edge. “I don’t know where to look first,” he says.
“Here,” I whisper, walking behind him, “is where I stood every night. Where voices reach beyond themselves.” I brush a hand across the stage floor, dust motes swirling in lamplight. The sound is soft—my foot against the floorboard, breath in his ears. “And this is where your voice will matter.”
He turns. Hesitates. Then leans down, picks up a lens cover, rubs finger over the glass. Cool, clear. He holds it to his eye, framing my face. “Like seeing you behind a viewfinder,” he says. I laugh—quiet, raw.
He lowers the lens. “You want me to step into that?” His voice echoes.
“Yes,” I say. “I want you to tell themyourtruth. Your version. What you saw, what you felt. We can’t just keep speaking from one side. They need you in the lens.”
