I let this information settle into my understanding like sediment drifting to the bottom of disturbed water. Process it slowly. Nod without speaking.
I'm too exhausted for words. Too wrung out emotionally to process anything more than the bare facts being presented.
But it changes things. Not enough to erase what happened or make it morally simple. But it reframes the act. Makes it less about vengeance and more about necessity. Less about rage and more about impossible choices made in impossible moments.
The difference between murder and something closer to justice.
Artan lifts his head slowly, like it weighs too much for his neck to support. Looks at Luan with eyes that are bloodshot and raw, red-rimmed from tears he hasn't fully shed.
"I didn't know," he says. His voice is hoarse, scraped raw by emotion. "Luan, you have to believe me. I didn't know about any of it. About Mira. About what he did to her. About the baby."
His throat works visibly, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows emotion threatening to overflow again.
"I thought she left me. Left us both. I even remember the last time I saw her. She told me to look after you. To make sure you were safe. After she was gone, I thought it was confirmation of what your father said. That she'd really decided to start over somewhere else. Without me. That I wasn't enough to make her stay."
The pain in his voice is visceral, a wound that's been festering for years finally exposed to air.
Luan closes the distance between them. Grabs Artan forcefully by the shoulders with both hands. Drags him to his feet with strength that brooks no resistance.
They stand like that, face to face, both men staring at each other with an intensity that feels almost violent. A mix of grief and anger and brotherhood and something like forgiveness passing between them in the charged silence.
"Brother," Luan says finally. His voice is rough, thick with emotion he usually keeps locked down. "Vëlla. You thought she'd abandoned you. And still you kept the last promise you made to her. Instead of searching for a better life for yourself, you stayed in this world, in this violence, because of a promise to someone you thought had chosen to leave."
Luan's grip tightens on Artan's shoulders, fingers digging in.
"It wasn't your fault. You didn't fail her. That piece of shit murdered her. And now he's paying for it in hell."
Both men embrace suddenly, fiercely. Arms wrapping tight. A moment of connection and release. Of shared grief finally acknowledged.
Then they separate just as quickly, stepping back, both looking slightly uncomfortable with the display of emotion.
I don't know what to do with myself in this moment. Everything is still so raw, so close to the surface. These emotional revelations have stripped us all bare, left us exposed and vulnerable in ways that feel almost unbearable.
We're all shaken. Unsteady on ground that suddenly feels less solid than it did an hour ago.
I move on instinct to the bar in the corner of the living room. With one hand I pick up four shot glasses from the shelf, the crystal cool and smooth against my fingers. With the other I grab a bottle of whiskey. I bring them to the center of the room where the men are standing, still close together, still processing.
Set the glasses on the coffee table with soft clinks. Pour four shots with a steady hand despite the chaos inside me.
The men understand what I'm doing immediately. Gather around me without being asked. Form a loose circle.
I hand one glass to Erion. Look him directly in the eyes, holding his gaze. Try to calm the storm I can see there, the chaos barely contained beneath his usual sardonic mask.
I give another to Luan. Reach up and brush a lock of dark hair from his forehead with gentle fingers. A soothing gesture. An anchor.
I give the third to Artan. Reach for his uninjured hand with my free one. Interlace our fingers, feeling his warmth, his solidness, his continued presence in the world.
Finally, I take my own glass, the whiskey gleaming amber in the light.
We're standing in a circle now. The four of us. Connected by proximity and touch and shared knowledge of terrible things.
I clear my throat, the sound small in the heavy silence. My voice comes out quiet when I say:
"To Mira."
Not joyful. Not celebratory. Just a remembrance of someone who was loved. Someone who deserved so much better than what she got. Someone whose absence has shaped all of us even though I never knew her.
We all raise our glasses. Empty our shots in synchronized silence, the whiskey burning down our throats. Hold the moment for a beat, letting it breathe, letting it mean something.
