“D,” she whispers, voice wobbly but bright.
I bend and gather her up, inhaling her scent—clean laundry, baby shampoo, warmth. My heart rips at the contrast. I cradle her against me.
Behind her, I glimpse Amy. Her back is turned. She steps toward the staircase, then pauses, then slips away. The door closes without a sound. The lock clicks. The quiet is crushing.
I tighten my hold on Libra. Her body trembles. I lift her higher so her head rests on my shoulder. “I love you,” I murmur, voice ragged.
She presses her small face into my chest. “I love you too, D.”
Her words echo in the hallway like fragile promise. I hold her. I taste salt and grief.
I release her gently. She steps beside me, looking up at me with wide, trusting eyes. I want to mend everything in that look. I reach toward the door, then sheath my hand. I know now that love isn’t enough to push open all doors.
I leave. The hallway lights blur as I descend the stairs. In each step I feel the sting of her silence behind me. The echo of locked doors pursues me.
Rain begins outside in light patter. Drips off eaves. Wet sound. Neon blur of city through windows. I pull my coat tighter. My eyes sting. Every rejection—flowers left, food unopened, letters unclaimed, doors closed—each one is a knife that slices deeper than the last.
And yet, with Libra’s trust clinging to my sleeve, I know I must persist. I must speak truth louder than hesitation. I must rebuild not with speeches but with honesty, patience, repentance.
I sink onto a curb under a flickering streetlamp. Rain beads the pavement. The night street hums. I press a hand to my chest, feel the ache there. I whisper to the empty wind:I will not lose you both.
Rain drips from my scalp. My clothes cling to me. The smell of wet concrete, of rain-soaked air, of the city rising past me fills my lungs. I taste the promise in it. The refusal in me to vanish.
Tonight, every door is closed. But I stand, soaked, broken, determined. I will knock again. I will speak again. The gulf may be wide, but I must try to cross it for her. For our daughter. For what we once called home.
CHAPTER 51
AMY
Ifind myself drawn to that interview like a moth to flame. Late nights, when the apartment is bathed in shadow, I sit before the holoscreen and replay it. Over and over. The flicker of lights. His face. My stunned silence. The studio’s hum turned monstrous in the echoes. I’m both spectator and victim in that moment. Watching him call Kanapa a hero—my mouth twisted in disbelief. There’s a crack in time there, a pivot where everything shattered. It stings to observe.
Sometimes the screen lights up the room; sometimes I’m staring into darkness and the video is only in my mind. The smudge of his words,“a hero, a patriot.”The betrayal plucks at me. I can see how I staggered backward, how my lips parted, what words died in my throat. The moment I stopped believing.
The walls of the apartment press close during those replays: the smell of stale air, of book pages, of long nights; the distant hum of passing hovercars outside. I hear the creak of floorboards, the echoes of my own gasp from that night reverberate in the space. Each time it plays, I feel that breach widen in me.
The next afternoon, Rex calls. His voice on the holo-comm is crisp, practiced. “Amy, there’s interest from a sponsor group.A revival offer. You go back to the anchor desk—less drama, more controlled. They’ll drop the Kanapa narrative, trim the controversy. You come back without Darun, without him, without mess.” He pauses, letting it settle.
The terms taste like betrayal. “So a sanitized version of truth is acceptable,” I say, voice cold. “One that hides half the story.”
He sighs. “It’s what’s safe. What they’ll accept. We can rebuild you—rebrand you—clean slate.”
I look at the walls, the old proofs of my work, the banner “DARRUNN SHOW!” curled and fallen in a box. The weight of silence presses. “I don’t want a sanitized version,” I say. “If I come back, it will be with the whole truth, or not at all.”
Rex’s sigh is heavy. “That burns bridges, Amy.”
I slump in my chair. “I’ve already burned them.” I refuse. I hang up. The holo-screen fades.
That night, in the hush, I watch Darun’s message again—the one he left secretly on my desk. In the dim light, his face is softened by remorse.“I chose wrong. I chose duty over you, over truth, over our daughter…”The words break me. They echo across the room. The scent of old paper, faint jasmine, distant traffic hum. I press my palm to the screen as if I could touch him through it.
Tears track silently down my face. I swallow them, press my lips tight.“I love you both.”That’s the last line. The promise.
I sit curled on the floor, knees drawn to chest, hugging myself. The message plays loop quietly in the air, undercut by soft static. Libra’s drawing lies crumpled nearby. The weight of the secret, the betrayal, the longing—all of it presses. In the days that follow, news channels roll his misstep into headlines:“Darun’s Sudden Reversal: Hero or Hypocrite?”“Anchor’s Fall: The Mathews Collapse”. Freak commentators weigh in on my “disgrace,” my “failure,” my “messy personal life.” The public eye gleans at my grief as fodder. The whispers fill the dry air.
I walk through outdoor markets, the scent of roasted street food heavy in humidity. People pass. I feel eyes on me—some pity, some scorn, some curiosity. A waitress in a holo café glances, lowers her gaze when I look. I feel each one as a blade.
Libra tugs at my coat one day. “Mommy, why do people point at you?” she whispers, voice small. We’re walking. The hum of hovercars overhead. The gritty scent of ozone and exhaust. I cup her face. “They don’t see the whole story,” I say. Her eyes flick to my face, uncertain. “But we’ll walk through it—together.”
I lie awake in darkness. The message still plays in my mind.“I will never do that again.”I taste remorse, bitter as ash. I trace the phone outline on the bedside table, fingers lingering.
