I nod, wipe dirt from my palm on my jeans. “We plant things people can touch. Smell. Taste. Remind them that memory isn’t all pain.”
He leans on the railing, looking out at the city skyline behind plants and rails and steel. The air hums. He breathes in the city smell—concrete, ozone, distant traffic.
We wander among herb beds, talking low. I tell him what it’s like volunteering here—how people come up after work, water plants, read among the greenery. Escape. Community. Seeds meant for more than survival.
He listens, then speaks softly: “I still dream of war nights. The explosions, the darkness, the screams.” His voice cracks. He tucks his coat around himself. “I can’t unsee it.”
I sit on a bench. I pat the plank next to me. He sits. The sun warms glass above us. He leans toward me. I turn, reach for him. He glances down, then meets my gaze. “I’m afraid—after I speak, silence might follow again.” He confesses it. Not as weakness, but as truth.
I slide closer. “You’ll never be alone in that. I’ll be there. Her presence here matters. Our voice matters. Silence can’t swallow all.” My fingers brush his arm. The wind lifts his hair; I feel the warmth of him in that space.
He leans his head back. “I like being here, with you.” He half-smiles. “Without weapons, without alerts, just… this.”
We walk back through the greenery, hand in hand. The rooftop door opens to sky. The city noise rises.
On the street below, lights flicker. We descend the stairs. I stay close. He glances at me, worries in his eyes.
At a corner shop, he stops and says, “Wait—one thing.” He enters. I follow. Inside, there’s jars of candy, small toys, humming display cases. Libra’s favorite candy stand from memory. He scans jars. Picks a flower-shaped lollipop—pink swirl.
He brings it to the counter. His coat pocket fumbles for his currency card. He swipes. Machine makes a beep. Error. He swipes again. The light blinks red. The clerk watches, eyebrows raised.
I step forward, mock stern: “You’re about to embarrass yourself in front of your daughter’s favorite candy shop.” The clerk glances between us, smiles politely.
He mutters into the card reader. It beeps again. He leans in. I roll my eyes.
Finally it works—beeps green. The clerk hands him the candy. He tucks it into a little bag. He holds it out to me like handing me an offering. “For her.”
I grin. “You did good.”
As we walk home, the night air smells of rain on concrete and distant food stalls. Darun tucks the candy in my bag. He stumbles slightly, and I catch his elbow.
I glance at him. He looks at me—as though wondering if this is real. I squeeze his hand. “It is.”
We walk into the apartment. He sets the candy on the shelf. We close the doors. Quiet. Safe.
I wind in behind him, wrap arms around his waist. He presses me close.
He murmurs, “Thank you for growing things with me.”
My lips to his shoulder: “Thank you for planting hope.”
We stand in quiet. The secret still lies unspoken. But in our home, life grows anyway. Always. And in that softness, in the green scent, in the rustle of leaves, perhaps we’ve begun something stronger than silence.
CHAPTER 38
DARUN
Midday sun slants through the apartment windows in wide bars of gold and dust. The living room is already a battlefield of cushions and blankets. I am down on my knees, scraping dust from cushion seams, hauling pillows as fort walls. Libra issues orders like a war general and Amy watches from the doorway, holo-recorder in hand, face lit with pride.
She said she’d help. But I told her, “This is ours to build.” She nodded. She backed off. She let me carry the bricks of gentleness. Now Libra directs: “Over there—pillows! Cover that gap!” She wields her wooden spoon like a scepter. I glance up at Amy. She’s steady, warm, letting me try and fail and try again.
When I place a final cushion roof, Libra jumps inside, brandishing the spoon. “Knight Darun!” she commands, voice full of delight. I bow, stiff but real. She taps my shoulder. “Arise, Sir Darun of the Fort.” Her laughter echoes in the pillow walls. Amy’s holo clicks quietly. I catch her eyes — she’s recording. I feel the weight of the moment in her gaze.
Inside the fort, dim light, the walls close but not too close. I sit cross-legged, Libra next to me. Cushions frame us like a safe citadel. The air smells of fabric, foam, childhood. I clear my throat, gather breath.
“Tell me a story,” Libra says, eyes shining.
Amy squeezes my shoulder. I begin: “Once there was a traveler who lost his way. War chased him. Silence haunted him. He wandered until he found soil so soft and voices that still cared. He planted seeds—ones people believed forgotten. He built again, not walls to hide, but spaces to belong.” I pause. Her face is fierce, bright. Amy watches, half-smile.
