“All of them.”
He shifts slightly, adjusting Alexander before answering.
“I’d tell him he survives.” A pause. “That he becomes someone his child will never fear.”
My chest tightens with affection.
“And you?” he asks.
I look at our son, then at him.
“I’d tell her that peace isn’t something you earn by bleeding for it. It’s something you practice, even when your hands still shake.”
He nods, accepting it like truth.
A couple walks past, smiling at Alexander. He returns it with the toothless brilliance of a baby who believes every stranger is a friend. Damian lifts him higher, enough for his small legs to kick at the air.
“Should we head back?” I ask.
“Not yet.” Damian’s voice is soft. “Let him enjoy the world a little longer.”
So we stay.
The world moves around us slowly, gently, unrushed. Vienna means people: a family, a man, a woman, a child. Three beating hearts learning a new rhythm together.
The shadows stretch, evening approaching.
Eventually, Alexander drifts off, cheek pressed to Damian’s chest, thumb curled near his mouth. Damian stands carefully, as if afraid one wrong move will break the spell.
I loop my arm through his free one. “Home?”
He nods.
We walk quietly this time, the kind that grows between people who no longer fear silence. Our footsteps and breaths match. Our shadows merge and separate as we pass under lampposts lighting one by one.
My life has never been this simple.
My life has never been this mine.
When we reach our small and sunlit apartment, full of mismatched furniture we’re slowly deciding on together, Damian carries Alexander to the bedroom and lays him gently in the crib. He stands there for a long moment, watching the rise and fall of tiny breaths.
When Alexander has finally drifted into the cottony softness of infant sleep and the apartment has dimmed into the gentle hush of Vienna at night, Damian and I settle onto the balcony.
The wrought-iron railing is cool beneath my palms. Down below, the streetlights scatter gold onto the cobblestones like pocketed treasure.
Damian hands me my cup of tea, fingers brushing mine, deliberate and unhurried. The quiet between us stretches, full like a room with memories.
He exhales softly,
“You know,” he says, leaning back in his chair, “I keep thinking about the estate.”
I blink at him.
“Which part? The fire? The rebuilding? The emotional scarring?”
“All of it,” he admits, eyes glinting with a wryness that wasn’t available to him in the past. “Mostly the fact that I once thought walls meant safety.”
“And now?” I ask, tucking my knees beneath me.
