Epilogue （2）
Khalee
Two years later
“Is it really fine? I don’t want to impose, ” I say, shifting Cosmos from one arm to the other as I step into what used to be Kaze’s house, seven years ago.
“Of course it’s fine, dear,” my mother-in-law replies, smiling as she reaches out to take my cat from me. “He’ll be just fine with us. Trust me.”
“Yeah, love, it’s fine, ” Kaze adds from behind me, slinging our duffel bag over his shoulder. “My father’s already weirdly attached to the little fucker. With any luck, we can leave him here forever.”
“Shut up. He’s ours.”
“Of course he is, ” his mom says sweetly, petting Cosmos as he lets out an offended little huff. “But you two have a plane to catch, and he’s going to be perfectly safe here. I promise.”
She’s right. We do have a plane to catch.
And even though Cosmos shoots me one last guilt-inducing glare before being carried off like royalty in his grandmother’s arms, I know he’ll be fine. Spoiled, even. Probably fed better than we will be for the next few weeks.
After everything, the grief, the healing, the nightmares, the noise inside our heads, life with Kaze, now my husband, is everything I ever dreamed it could be. And more.
We got married last spring. Just us, our therapists, our parents, and a few of my long-time clients who’d somehow became friends along the way. No big white dress. No church. Just a garden behind my parents’ house, a playlist Kaze made himself, and a sky full of soft purple light.
I wore a lavender dress with bare feet and my hair free on my shoulders.
He wore a white button-down and his beautiful smile.
He cried before I even reached him.
I cried the moment we kissed, right after the “I do’s,” because there was no other possible answer. There had never been.
There were flowers, wild and imperfect, yet beautiful.
Laughter that burst like sunlight through the clouds.
Speeches that dissolved into tears before the words could fully land.
There was music, soft and honest, and there was magic, not the kind you see, but the kind that wraps itself around your chest and makes it hard to breathe in the best possible way.
We exchanged rings we’d designed just for that day, symbols of everything we’d survived.
Mine bears the letter K, a tiny music note, and the words never again etched deep into the metal, more prayer than promise.
He has the same letter, the one we both share in our names, a star, and those exact two words that have come to mean everything to us.
We read our vows aloud, vows we wrote together on a quiet Wednesday night, half-drunk on red wine and moonlight. We kept pausing, too overwhelmed to continue. To kiss. To cry. To laugh at how surreal it all felt, to be planning a forever that once seemed impossible.
None of it was perfect. The flowers weren’t all the same shade. The cake was late. One of the speakers forgot their lines. But just like the road we’d traveled, together and apart, it was real. Raw. Beautiful. Ours.
Kaze’s recovery wasn’t linear. Neither was mine.
Trauma doesn’t follow calendars, and healing doesn’t wait for ceremonies.
There were setbacks. Fights that left us silent for days.
Moments when even a gentle touch felt like too much.
Nights we spent apart, not because we didn’t love each other, but because the ghosts of our pasts were too loud to ignore.
But we made it.
We make it every single day.
I kept working, reading birth charts, laying out cards, and guiding people who were searching for meaning, clarity, and hope.
And Kaze… he finished his music degree, the one he was enrolled in when we first met.
Now, he works with a rehabilitation program that utilizes music and storytelling to help at-risk youth.
He teaches them rhythm and melody, yes, but more than that, he listens.
He shares. He tells the truth about how low he once sank, how close he came to disappearing.
And how music gave him something solid to hold on to, besides his love for me, of course.
He still writes songs. Always. On his 26th birthday, I gave him a new leather-bound notebook, and it has never left his side since.
He brings it to me whenever he finishes a melody, eyes bright like a kid showing off their first drawing.
Sometimes we play together, his fingers on the frets, mine brushing the chords beside him.
Other times, he plays just for me, and I sit quietly, listening with a heart so whole it could burst.
Not because the music is perfect, but because he is.
And me? I ended up volunteering for the same program he works for, following my parents’ advice.
Sometimes I just clean.
Sometimes I sit beside someone in silence.
Sometimes I use what I know —my cards, my words, my energy —to remind people that they are not the worst thing that has ever happened to them.
That all lives matter.
That they matter.
So, yes, it’s safe to say we’re happy. Truly happy. The kind of happiness that’s not always quiet and steady, but was still built from the ground up after everything we’ve been through.
We’re married, building a life side by side, not just in love but in purpose. We’re both professionally involved in what we care about (helping others, creating meaning from the pain we’ve lived through), and to be honest, I think life can only get better going forward.
“What’s on your mind, love?” my husband asks, already behind the wheel, driving us toward the airport.
My parents were coordinating a volunteer mission in Cartagena, Colombia, and this summer, Kaze and I both decided it was time to go too. Time to do something different. Time to create a ripple somewhere else on the map. To bring light where it was needed, together.
I glance at him, sunlight touching the side of his face, and smile softly.
“How amazing life is, baby, ” I reply, a little nostalgic.
He knows the tone. Knows me better than anyone ever could.
“Do you miss her?”
I know exactly who he means.
“Sometimes, ” I say. “But I know she’s okay. And that’s what matters now.”
My sister was okay. Or at least, she was trying.
Healing is a process. A war. Some days she wins. Some days, the past still wins. The addiction tests her. The demons scream too loudly. But she’s alive. She’s getting help. She’s fighting. That’s more than I used to believe was possible.
At the beginning, seeing each other was… difficult.
I wasn’t ready. And neither was she.
There was too much history between us, too much pain, regret, and confusion. She was the source of so many of my wounds, the reason behind too many nightmares.
But time passed. And therapy… helped.
And after her release from the mental health center, we started again.
Small at first. A message. A voice note. A letter. No apologies, just honesty. Just… effort.
Slowly, piece by piece, we began to rebuild part of what was left. Not as it was. But as something new.
It’s still difficult for me, to this day, to fully understand why she did it.
I always loved her. Always wanted to help and protect her, and she saw me as …
someone to remove from her life. It still hurts, of course.
And I still don’t trust her. But learning about her mental situation and seeing her effort helped me try.
Not every story of survival ends in reconciliation, and expecting it to do so… It’s unfair.
Forgiving isn’t forgetting. And we both knew that, because some wounds leave echoes, and the ones she inflicted on me did.
But I was at least doing my part, and she was doing hers. That was enough for now.
The men responsible, the ones who shattered pieces of both our lives, were sentenced to prison. They’re there now. Locked away. And that’s enough for me.
The last time I heard anything about them was the day the sentence was handed down.
I attended the hearing as a victim, and as soon as I stepped out of that courtroom, with Kaze and my parents beside me, I felt something shift.
Like a heavy door finally closed behind me.
Justice had been served. Not perfect justice, not enough to erase the scars, but enough to let us breathe again.
Mada was responsible, too, of course. But she was sick, and that was proven in court. She wasn’t excused, but she was understood.
Thanks to Kaze’s memories from his time as a ghost in Patrick’s house, we were able to provide the police, anonymously, with the names of other victims. He remembered them. Their faces, their pain, the things they whispered when they thought no one could hear.
That information ended up helping in our case, too. It supported the charges. Helped paint the full picture. It also came to light that they weren’t just throwing parties, they were dealers. Those so-called parties were a cover for something darker, more calculated.
I hope some of the other victims, the ones with scars like mine, were able to find help because of all this. I hope that, through the truth finally being told, they got the chance to heal. To be heard. To begin again.
As for Tommy, we would have liked to see him face justice too, especially because we knew all too well how deeply he was tangled in Kaze’s downfall and in the misery of so many others.
But in his case, the Universe took matters into its own hands.
His ambition ended up sealing his fate early.
Two years after betraying Kaze, he was betrayed himself—by one of his most trusted men, who turned out to be in cahoots with a rival gang.
Did he get what he deserved? I don’t know.
Honestly, it’s not for me to decide. But just knowing he’ll never again come back to torment Kaze or cast his shadow over our lives—that alone is enough for me.
Lastly, my sister… she faced her own form of justice, through treatment. The court ordered her into a monitored mental health program. For the next few years, she’ll be required to attend regular therapy sessions and undergo periodic evaluations.
It’s not punishment. But it is accountability.
Seven years ago, I would’ve needed revenge just to breathe again. I would’ve required them all to suffer, to pay, to hurt the way we did.
But now?
Justice was served. And I was finally able to move on.
It still hurts sometimes. I know it does, for both of us.
But healing, like love, is a choice. One we make over and over again. We choose to grow. To be better. For ourselves, and for each other.
Because we deserve that.
Our love deserves that.
After everything we’ve survived and rebuilt, our bond is nothing short of a miracle. And miracles should be celebrated—every day.
“Ready?” Kaze asks, his tattooed fingers brushing over mine just before we step out of the car, together, toward whatever’s next.
“Always. I love you.”
He smiles, green eyes soft but steady.
“I love you, too. In this life… and the next.”