We run it a second time. This round, words come firmer. I talk about the ambush, the lies, the cost of silence. I speak of civilian families lost, voices erased, and how I clawed out from the ash of my own death. My fingers tremble over lines I thought I'd never say aloud. Amy helps gently, nudging me past stumbles. We shape sentences until they cut deep, but clear.
Libra sits up, headset dangling, calls, “Ready, Daddy!” She beams. My heart splits. I grin back. She cheers. I crouch beside her after rehearsal and tousle her hair. “Best producer I ever had.” She laughs, full and free.
After we finish, Amy stands beside me, touching my shoulder. The studio fades behind us; hallway lights hum. I inhale. I taste adrenaline, possibility, fear.
She says softly: “You were real up there. Not hollow.” Her voice catches.
I press my lips. “Becauseyoupushed me.”
She studies me. “We will do this on air.”
I nod. “Together.”
Night comes. We lie side by side in the dark of our bed, the apartment breathing quiet around us. The windows are cracked, night air drifting in cool, smelling of pavement and distant rain. The hum of the city hums under the hush. I turn onto my side, watch the ceiling cracks drift in the light between blinds.
I turn to her. Her face curves in half-shadow. She breathes easy. I reach for her hand. Our fingers interlace. My palm warms her skin. Her warmth anchors me.
I whisper: “I’m scared.”
She shifts closer. “Of? Of war returning?” she asks.
I shake inside. “No. I fear losing this peace. Losing us.”
Silence. Only hum of distant life.
She squeezes my hand, her voice quiet but firm: “Then hold it. Fight for us. I believe you deserve this.”
I swallow. “I want this. I want us.”
She lifts her head. Eyes glint. She reaches up, brushes hair from my brow. “Then it’s yours.”
I lean in. We kiss—slow, certain. No rush. No hesitation. Just contact. Just breath and closeness. The secret between us still lingers, but for once, I feel that it might wait. Because tonight, we are here. No armor between us. Just skin, spine, scars, and promise.
I sleep then—not in vigilance, but in something resembling peace. I hold nothing but memory, possibility, and the weight of a name I’ll speak when I’m ready.
CHAPTER 37
AMY
The rooftop greenhouse isn’t much in size, but it’s magic. When I swing open the heavy steel door, the air hits us warm and humid, tangy with earth and leaf. Beams of sunlight filter through cracked panes, dappling dust motes across rows of green. I can smell basil, mint, young shoots of rosemary, and the faint sweet tang of jasmine daring to push through the glass.
Darun follows behind me, boots clinking on the metal grating. He looks wary—like he’s expecting something to combust. I wave away his hesitation. “It’s safe up here.”
He breathes in. The air slides into his throat. He inhales again. “It’s beautiful.” He steps forward, glancing at seedlings stretching toward sunlight.
I point out a plot teak box to the side. “Here—let’s plant some herbs. Soil’s ready.” I hand him a small packet of seed capsules. He fingers them awkwardly, like they’re unfamiliar weapons. “Basil, sage, thyme. Mostly for scent and flavor. They survive heat if you tend to them.”
He nods, expression serious. I bring him a trowel and a container of rich compost. The soil smells dark and alive. He sinks the trowel in. The dirt is soft, yielding. He looks amazed. Ikneel beside him, hands in the soil. He’s silent for a moment. I wait.
Then he murmurs, “Why does this matter so much—I mean, after everything.”
I pause, rest my hand on the bed of turned earth. The wind stirs the glass rafters. “Because some things grow even after fire. Even in places scorched, there’s seed in soil waiting for rain.” My voice is soft, but steady. “You can’t just fight forever. You have to build. Heal. Let life push through cracks.”
He nods slowly. He takes basil seeds in his fingers, spreads them carefully in a furrow. I water gently. The droplets glint, fall into the furrow, dust rising faintly. The smell is almost electric—green, alive.
We plant row after row. His hands get dirty; there’s soil under his nails. He glances at me and smiles—awkward, shy. I smile back. There’s a light between us now. Not the flash of war, but slow, steady.
Once a row is planted, he stands and stretches. “So… we don’t just dig through war stories. We plant stories too?” he says, almost a question.
