Later, we drive away, her medal shining on the dashboard. We leave that school behind: laughter, applause, something normal. Something earned.
We move soon after. A modest house in a quiet suburb, enough yard to plant something living. The walls smell fresh—new paint, timber, sunlight through windows. Libra’s toys scatter in corners. I carry a small sapling for the backyard: a young tree, slender but ravenous for earth.
I kneel in the soft soil, glove in my hand, grit under my nails. The loam smells good—earth, possibility. I dig, roots curling. Amy stands behind me, arms folded, watching.
“Do you want help?” she offers. I laugh, a relieved sound. I hand her the gloves. She kneels and together we slide the sapling into the hole. I pack soil, she whispers encouragement. We water it. The water sizzles in dry earth, darkens it. The tree stands, fragile and proud. Wind ruffles its young leaves.
Inside, Amy retires to the study. She’s writing a book now. Pages line the desk. The hum of her keyboard at night, soft but insistent. I watch her, silhouette in lamplight. Sometimes I bring her tea. We sit shoulder to shoulder. She reads me chapters—truths, memories, reflections. I correct timelines, pronounce names.
Libra learns to ride a hoverbike with stabilizers on the small driveway. The platform hums under her boots. She squeals when she gains speed. I run behind, arms ready. She glides, teetering,then steady. Sweat in her hair, wind on her face. She raises her arms. I catch her when she slows. She laughs, cheeks red, eyes lit with triumph.
We’re still poor. We read hate comments in the night, threats and curses. The web pages spike in darkiy. But we watch them together, standing shoulder to shoulder. She grips my hand. Amy rests her head on my shoulder. We’re hunted, yes—but not broken.
One night, under the soft glow of kitchen lamplight, Libra sits with me at the table. Her hair is braided. She leans forward, eyes unshadowed with childhood curiosity.
“Daddy,” she asks, “do you miss fighting?”
My heart contracts. I set my fork down. The smell of dinner lingers—garlic, steamed vegetables, bread. I lift her hand, brush fingers over knuckles. I taste salt in my throat.
“Only the parts that made me someone worth coming home to,” I say. The words tremble. She nods slowly, understanding more than she should. Amy stirs in her chair beside us. She watches me. Her eyes glisten.
Later, I sit in the dark, in the new house, listening. The wind rustles leaves outside—the young tree, our roots pushing into earth. The city hums beyond. Libra sleeps in her bed. Amy yawns beside me. The weight of public battles presses far off. Tonight, we lie in this room, in this fragile home, in the glow of survival.
I press my palm to the wall beside me, feeling timber, nails, foundation. We are rooted now. Not in power or applause, but in truth, in family, in earth. The war is still inside me. The battlefield still in memory. But tonight, in this house, we are whole.
Tomorrow the wind returns. But we have roots now. Something real that can hold us. Something that truth built. And I’ll fight every day to defend it.
CHAPTER 59
AMY
The launch of my memoir is more fragile than fireworks. I sit in my office, the manuscript’s cover glinting under soft lighting, and scroll through reviews—some glowing, many not.“Brave,” “unflinching,”yes—but also“self-serving,” “naïve,” “Ataxian sympathizer.”I taste disappointment in each barbed line, but I also taste relief. The book is out. My voice is alive in print.
Darun’s articles—his blog posts on war, on citizen trauma, on the cost of silence—begin being picked up by fringe networks, small stations hungry for unvarnished truth. They’re not major networks, far from it. Some are rebroadcast in hidden corners, online forums. People share, retweet, whisper. We’re not famous anymore. We’re not even influential. But we are heard. And that feels vital.
I glance up from my holopad. Darun stands by the window, adjusting book spines, leaving little notes with his ink scrawl:“Don’t forget word count for next post.”His face is calm. He turns, eyes meeting me. It’s enough. I exhale.
Next morning, we walk to Libra’s school. The sky is crisp, faint scent of autumn in air: dead leaves, distant wood smoke. Libra holds both our hands—one small, warm, calloused palmbeside mine. Darun laughs low at something she whispers. Her chatter is bright, everyday, glorious.
We pass neighbors planting bulbs, mail carriers wheeling carts, the soft hum of hovercars overhead. The street smells of morning dew, warmed brick, fresh coffee drifting from café doors.
A passerby—man in mid-stride—spots us. He stops. Mouth twists. He spits a slur under his breath: “Ataxian lover.” The sound like spit on granite. He strides off.
I don’t flinch. I stand straighter, pull Libra closer. I want to hiss back some defiance, but silence is sometimes louder.
Darun’s jaw tenses. He growls under his breath. His fingers tighten around Libra’s hand. The man vanishes down the block.
Darun looks down at me. His expression shifts—anger, protectiveness, then something gentler. He turns to me, lips curving in a half-smile. “You okay?” he murmurs.
“I am,” I say. My voice is steady, though my heart hammers. I squeeze his hand. Libra tugs forward. We continue walking, together, hands linked. We don’t wave him off. We don’t pretend he didn’t speak. We just keep moving.
That night, dinner finishes. The house smells of roast vegetables, simmered broth, bread crumbs. We linger at the table. The light is soft, warm. Libra runs off to her room. We lean back in our chairs. Silence settles.
I look at Darun. His profile glows in lamplight. Every line of his face reminds me of storms we survived, battles we told, secrets we unraveled.
I ask quietly, “Do you regret any of it?”
He turns to me, chest rising and falling. He stands, approaches me, and kisses my forehead carefully, as though each kiss must earn its place. “Not one word of truth. Not one second with you.”
