Chapter 46
ALAINA
The yard is golden—late afternoon sun glinting off dew still clinging to grass blades, dust motes dancing in the warmth. I stand at the sliding glass door of our new home, coffee in hand, watching Troka and Caelix in the yard. My heart thumps a ragged rhythm.
Caelix runs first, little legs pumping, laughter wide.
Troka is behind him, chasing, arms out. Caelix stumbles, glances over his shoulder, and Troka scoops him up in a bear hug.
The kid clings to him like gravity—arms tight around Troka’s neck, legs wrapped, face buried.
Troka lifts him, spins him—Caelix’s giggle echoes like windchimes.
I lean the mug on the sill. The smell of roast coffee, cut grass, warm wood. The porch creaks under my bare feet when I step outside. My dress sways. The breeze is faint, carrying cut grass and soil.
Troka sees me. He stills. Caelix squirms free, runs toward the house.
Troka calls, “Mama!” His voice carries. Caelix leaps, crashes into me, giggling.
I drop two hands to pull him close, breath warm, sticky with toddler sweat.
Troka steps forward. I feel his presence behind me. He lays a hand gently on my shoulder.
“You okay?” he asks.
I nod, voice thick. “I never thought I’d see this day.”
Troka curves his lips. “Me neither… but here it is.”
We watch Caelix chase a butterfly trap—they laugh, I breathe and swallow. The guilt—of all the lies, all the nights I hid things—it doesn’t disappear. But love is growing—slow, mossy, strong enough to root through cracks.
Later—mid-afternoon—I walk inside, heart hammering with purpose. The Jalshagar paperwork sits on the dining table: three lines. His name. Mine. Caelix’s. Hands shake. I hover. My guilt shrinks back from the pen. But I step forward.
Troka emerges in the doorway. His shirt is paint-streaked. He’s been fixing the fence. I notice scars on his arms, and I trace one with my eyes: the one from the bomb. He catches me watching.
“You doing the paperwork?” he asks quietly.
My breath stutters. “I… I want to.” I pick up the pen. “I want my name there—ours.”
He nods, silent. The yard through the window—the place life continues—is golden and real. I sign. My name. His. Caelix’s. The ink smudges slightly from my shaking fingers. I press down too heavy. The page quivers.
Troka steps beside me. He wraps an arm around my waist. I lean in, chest pressed, hearing his heartbeat steady.
“You did beautiful,” he whispers.
I breathe. “I chose you. Again.”
He turns me to look—through the window, yard wide. Caelix has found a stick and is poking dirt. He looks like a little explorer. I think of all I held back, all I let him nearly lose. But today the walls are gone.
We step outside together, join them. Troka picks up Caelix and raises him high. The little child squeals. I laugh—soft, unguarded. Troka sets him on his shoulders. The world looks right.
I rest my hand on Troka’s forearm. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “For every moment I hid. I’ll never do it again.”
Troka’s voice steady: “Start fresh. We build from here.”
We lean into each other as Caelix runs ahead, footprints in fresh soil. The sun dips a bit. Shadows stretch. The yard hushes. The guilt lingers—but softened, warmed by the promise of this moment.
We walk side by side, hands brushing. I glance at our names on that paper inside. It’s real now: not a contract, but a pledge.
I rest my head on his shoulder. He laughs low. “You sign like a warrior.”
I grin. “Because I feel like one.”
Caelix runs back, throwing his arms wide. I kneel; he flings himself into me. Troka folds us both into a hug.
Later, when the stars shine overhead, Troka and I sit on the porch swing. The quiet crackles. He puts his arm around me; I lean in.
“Stay,” I whisper.
He presses his lips to my forehead. “Always.”
We stay there long into the night—no lies, no running, just two hearts tangled, two promises rooted in the home we choose together.