He presses a kiss to my forehead. “Thank you for trusting me, even when I didn’t deserve it.”
I feel the shift. The door has opened again. The lie has shattered. The truth is heavier—but soft ground is beneath us now. I believe we might not just survive—but grow.
We lie in that fragile warmth. He holds me and her. Sleep seeping into our bones. The world beyond waits. But here, tonight, we rest on soft ground.
CHAPTER 56
DARUN
The first time I try to make pancakes, I set the pan too hot. The smoke alarms shriek in protest. Flour drifts through the room like ash. I stand over the skillet, spatula in hand, watching the edges char and curl. The smell of burnt batter fills the air—sweet, acrid, regret. I swat at the smoke, eyes watering.
Libra appears in the doorway, hair tousled, morning pajamas. She claps her hands, voice bright: “Daddy! Pancakes!” She bounces forward despite the haze. Amy laughs from the couch—soft, amused, hopeful.
“Okay, okay,” I mutter. “New plan.” I turn down the flame, salvage what I can. The second batch comes out browned but edible. I set three small pancakes on a plate, drizzle a bit of syrup.
Libra cheers, clapping again. She picks one up, takes a bite with a grin. I taste it—warm, slightly crisp, imperfect. But it is breakfast made by me. Amy joins us at the table, her eyes soft.
We eat. The kitchen is filled with steam, syrup scent, her laughter, the quiet hum of morning. The smoke is gone. The cracked batters are forgotten.
Every morning, I walk Amy to the studio. We pass under city lights yet pale in the dawn. The air smells of damp concrete, coffee from cafés opening, the hum of hovercars waking. Amy presses her hand in mine—small affirmation. Libra waves from the front door, little backpack slung over her shoulder. She watches us go, then runs back inside to tinker with toys.
At mid-day, I pick up Libra from school. She leaps into my arms, her giggle echoing in the hallway. I carry her home, her hair brushing my cheek, her small hand gripping my shirt. People on the sidewalk pause, glance at us: soldier and child, homeward bound.
In the evenings I begin to write. I sit at Amy’s desk, sleeves rolled, fingers stained with ink and thought. I spill what war did to me, to civilians, to homes broken by fire. I write of silence in patrol zones, of children hiding under rubble, of the ache behind each gunshot. The blog posts trickle into the public domain—few reads, few shares—but I don’t care. I write anyway because truth is a wound that must bleed.
At night I read bedtime stories to Libra: tales of dragons, of distant stars, of gentle warriors. She curls in beside me, leaning her head on my shoulder. I listen to her soft breathing. Outside, the apartment hums low, walls bearing witness.
I fix broken furniture—stools, desks, toys. I carve wood, hammer nails, align screws. I learn how to braid her hair—awkward at first, but over time fingers remember curves, loops, the touch of braid against scalp. She beams when she sees the finished plait, and I feel something in mend.
One night, we sit together in the living room. Libra is asleep in her bed. Amy reclines on the sofa beside me. The lamp glows warm. I take her hands.
“I think I’m a better fighter when I’m not fighting,” I say. My voice is soft, trembling with truth.
She looks at me, her eyes wide. She smiles, tears maybe in the corner. She leans close and kisses me gently. “You’re exactly who we need you to be,” she replies. Her voice steady, certain, full with love and hope.
I lean into that affirmation. My bones relax a little. I press my forehead to hers. The worn ache of betrayal, the echo of lies—they all shimmer in the background. But here—at home, holding her hands, listening to her voice—I taste renewal.
Tonight, I am not the soldier in armor. I am father, partner, storyteller. The battlefield is at rest. But the war in memory remains. Still, I press on. With pancakes, with braids, with words. With her.
We fall quiet. The city outside sings in lights. The apartment is a small world, gentle and safe. Around us, walls hold our laughter, our tears, our truths. It is imperfect. It is ours.
And I will stay here. Fight for this peace. Because when I’m not fighting war, I’m fighting to be whole again.
CHAPTER 57
AMY
The studio smells of stale coffee, polished steel, and tension when I arrive. Underfoot the floorboards hum; lights hum overhead. I pass the control room—alarms muted. Darun waits in a side hallway, hands clasped, shoulders squared. Dark circles under his eyes, but resolute. He gives me a small nod, like an anchor. My heart flutters—fear, pride, purpose all mingling.
I pause a moment, breath in the air: ink, polish, human voices diffused through walls. This is the moment. I step on stage.
“Good evening,” I begin, voice firm. The holonet’s red lights flare. The segment title blooms behind me:War Without Heroes.
“Tonight, we present stories the headlines bury.” I glance at Darun just off camera. He’s steady. I press on.
We open with the voice of a woman from a shattered frontier town: her home bombed, children lost, her plea ignored by commanders. I read her letter, unvarnished, raw. The camera sweeps over her photo, the ruins, the furnace of loss. My throat thickens.
Darun’s voice whispers into the earpiece. “Make sure we name the year, correct the location.” His fingers brush the kick of a tablet screen. I straighten. I go on.
