Amara’s voice cut through mine. She was suddenly between us, her hands on my chest, her eyes wide and pleading. “Please,” she said softly. “That’s enough. You’re home now. Let it rest.”
But I couldn’t rest. The anger was too deep. It clawed its way up my throat like fire.
My mother stepped back, shaking her head. “I can’t look at you right now,” she whispered, voice fractured. “I’m going for a walk.”
“Mother—”
But she was already gone, slipping through the door, her shawl trailing behind her like the last thread of something unraveling. The sound of her sandals on the dirt faded into the morning air.
The silence that followed felt unbearable.
Amara’s hands still pressed against my chest. “Lazarus,” she said quietly. “Please. She’s just—hurting.”
I laughed under my breath—a sound without joy. “Hurting? You know what I’m hurting from, Amara?”
She didn’t answer.
“My whole life, I believed my father was a war hero,” I said, voice shaking. “A soldier who died for this land. I wore his name like armor. I fought for it. And now I find out?—”
“Lazarus, stop?—”
“He could’ve been one of them,” I spat, the words breaking as they left me. “One of the men who came through that door. One of the faces I saw when I was a child.”
Amara’s eyes glistened. “You don’t know that,” she said softly. “You don’t know anything yet.”
I stepped back from her. “I know enough.”
She reached for me, but I was already moving—past the table, past the hearth, toward the door.
“Lazarus,” she called softly.
I stopped, my hand on the frame. The light outside was harsh, almost white. It burned against the haze inside me.
Amara’s voice wavered as she came closer. “You’re tired,” she said, her hand brushing my arm. “I’m sure you haven’t slept in days. Please. Sit down.”
I didn’t answer. My chest felt too tight to speak.
She stepped in front of me, her eyes searching mine. “You’ve just come home from war. Let today end here, my love.”
Her words were soft—not pleading, not scolding—just steady, the way only she could be. “I’ll draw you a bath,” she said. “You’ll rest. Eat something. When the sun sets, things will feel lighter.”
I wanted to believe her.
But belief felt like a foreign thing now—a language I’d forgotten how to speak.
Still, when she took my hand, I didn’t pull away. Her fingers were warm, trembling slightly, as though she feared I might vanish if she let go.
“All right,” I said quietly. My voice sounded distant, hollow. “A bath.”
She nodded, relief flickering across her face. “Good. Just rest. Tomorrow will be better.”
I looked once toward the open door, where the wind carried the sound of sandals in the distance—my mother’s fading footsteps.
Then I turned back to Amara and let her lead me inside.
* * *
The sun hung low over Ugarit, spilling its last light across the clay rooftops. The heat had begun to fade, but the air still carried the sting of salt and smoke. I stood outside the house, sandals sinking into the dirt, staring toward the fields that stretched pale and wind-stirred beyond the village walls.
