I do. Or, I did. They stayed the same, didn’t they?
The thought turns my stomach.
Get a grip, Cassian.
I force a nod and adjust my grip on the ruck, ignoring the way my fingers clench too tightly around the strap.
Sabine leads the way to the car, chatting like she’s trying to fill space. I let her. The doors shut with a soft thunk, and we’re off. She drives like she always has; one hand on the wheel, the other messing with the air vents or the radio. A pop song plays, bright and chirpy. I’ve never heard it before.
“Your old room’s still there,” she says after a minute, eyes on the road. “I mean, Mom tried to turn it into a sewing space or whatever, but I stopped her. Figured you’d want to come back to something familiar.”
I nod again. Not because I know what to say, but because it feels like I should.
“You still take the same route home?” I ask finally.
Sabine glances over, like she’s surprised I’d ask something like that. “Yeah. I mean, not much reason to change it. Some things are still the same, you know?”
I glance out the window. The streets haven’t changed much. Same cracked sidewalks, same leaning telephone poles, same guy on the corner trying to sell hot dogs at the wrong time of day.
“Mom’s been in the garden every damn day,” Sabine says, lips twitching like she’s fighting a smile. “Front yard’s turning into a jungle. I swear she’s trying to grow every herb known to man.”
“Sounds like her.”
“She’s actually doing really well,” Sabine adds, a little quieter this time. “You wouldn’t believe how different she is now. Calmer. More... her, I guess.”
I don’t say anything right away, but something settles low in my chest. I remember the version of her that used to freeze up at raised voices, the one who’d disappear the second a door slammed too hard. If sticking her hands in the dirt and bossing around basil plants helps her breathe a little easier, then good. She’s earned that.
“I’m glad,” I say eventually, and I mean it.
“She misses you,” Sabine says. “We both did.”
I glance down at my hands. There are small cracks in my knuckles, faint lines of old scars. I don’t know what to say to that. Not really.
Because yeah, I missed them too. Maybe not every damn day, but often enough. Especially in those dead stretches between missions when everything’s quiet and there’s nothing left to focus on. I missed the way the house smelled. I missed Sabine humming through her chores like she was in some kind of personal musical. I missed knowing there were still people in the world who gave a damn whether I lived or died.
But I trained that out of myself. Had to. Thinking about home too much while you’re knee-deep in the worst parts of the world—that’ll rot you from the inside out. So I shoved all that shit down and left it there.
Now I don’t have the words anymore.
So I say the thing that’s easiest.
“I’m not staying forever.”
Sabine doesn’t react right away. She just keeps her eyes on the road, fingers tapping lightly on the wheel.
I should explain, soften the blow, but nothing comes. The truth is, I don’t know how long I’ll stay. A few days, maybe aweek or two. Long enough to show my face. Not long enough to pretend things haven’t changed. Life moved on without me. It had to. Another mission will come, and I’ll take it.
Sabine knows that. So does Mom. I don’t think anyone’s under any illusions here.
Still, when she glances over at me, I catch that flicker in her expression—not hurt, exactly, but something close. Not surprise, either. Just that tired kind of acceptance people get when they’ve already stopped waiting for a different answer.
We used to be tighter than this. I knew everything going on in her life, used to threaten the kids who picked on her, used to steal dumb little snacks she liked just to hear her laugh. She promised me the house would always be home before I left. That there’d always be a place for me if I wanted it.
Maybe part of her still hopes that’s true. Maybe she still wants me to stay.
“Yeah,” she says finally, and it lands soft. Too soft.
And that’s when it hits me: I’m screwing this up. Right here, in real time. Doing that thing where I show up just enough to remind them I exist, but not enough for them to expect anything else. Acting like this is temporary so nobody gets the bright idea to ask me to make it permanent.
