Chapter 33
AMY
Iwake to a sputtering sound—somewhere between a pan clattering and Darun’s voice muttering, “Why the hell is this burning?” The murk of morning light slants through the blinds, blotchy and hesitant, and I take a moment to just lie still, to taste the quiet between us.
The scent of smoke creeps under the door before I move, and I realize: he’s in the kitchen, trying to cook.
I slip from the sheets, the softness of the mattress still beneath me, and pad down the hall.
The bathroom door is ajar; steam drifts from the towel rack.
But the kitchen is where the real scene is.
He’s bent over a pan, spatula in hand, shirt sleeves rolled.
Edges of the egg are gone black, smoke curling upward.
The air smells of burnt protein and something like hope.
Libra appears behind him in slippers, hair wild, eyes half-open. “Daddy’s cooking?” she murmurs. Then she rubs her face and says, “Mommy?”
He startles. The spatula jumps. The egg sizzles. I laugh before I can stop it—a real laugh, soft and warm. It cracks the tension like a fault line.
“Here,” I say, stepping in, grabbing a spoon. “Let me help before we set off the smoke alarm.”
He glances over shoulder, eyes startled. “I was trying—”
“Let’s salvage it.” I edge close. We both hover over the pan. I take the spatula, turn the egg carefully, coaxing it back from the brink. The kitchen smells of oil warmed, garlic from last night’s leftovers, and fresh bread toast languishing nearby.
Libra climbs up on a stool and plucks at my elbow. “Can I have juice?”
“Yeah, sweetheart,” I say, handing her a mug. She slurps. She smiles at me, sleepy, beautiful in that bruise of dawn.
Darun watches her—that way I’ve watched him, that way he watched me in ruins. His gaze softens.
When the eggs are edible, we carry plates to the little dining table—plates mismatched, spoons clinking, toast buttered, eggs a little charred, coffee steaming. That first bite tastes like survival, like fragile beginnings.
Libra chatters about her dream last night—dragons that flew, trees that sang. Darun laughs. I laugh. The sound feels strange and needed in my throat.
After breakfast, we decided to go to the park.
The air is soft, fresh, sky pale with promise.
Libra tugs us through the walk. Darun holds her hand.
I trail behind, watching him watch her. The grass is damp, the scent of wet earth.
The park’s trees drip dew. The world feels ninety percent alive again.
He leads us to the swings. I push Libra. High. She shrieks. Her laughter—small, perfect—makes me want to weep. Darun’s silhouette behind her as I push: arms straining, foot planting in grass, coat brushing the blades. He watches her swing, gravity and wind dancing.
I raise my holo-camera without thinking—snap the moment: Darun’s face caught in sunlight beyond the frame, her lifted feet bare, hair dancing. I hide the camera, heart thumping, because this is too precious to risk.
He glances over. Our eyes meet. I flush. He gives a small smile, a tilt. There’s no shame in it. There's a possibility.
We walk back, shoes tapping pavement, sky yawning. She babbles over the next games to play. Darun takes her hand. I walk between them. The distance seems small.
Back home, I brew tea. He flops onto couch. She curls beside him. He has her picture in his eyes while reading mail. I watch. The weight in my chest squeezes.
Night seeps in. We eat dinner lounged between couch cushions. The holostation hums low. We speak in quiet fragments—books, music, nothing lethal.
Afterwards, I retreat to my bedroom to check something.
My private archive. I open a folder, “Moments.” I scroll.
Then I drag in the photograph I snapped at the park—no caption.
Darun’s silhouette behind her swing. Libra arcing through air.
The curve of their limbs. Then me, lurking just out of frame.
My fingers linger. I watch lines in her hair, the arc of his back. I hold the image like a living thing.
I don’t post it. I don’t explain. I save it under lock. In the dark I whisper, “This is home.”
Outside, little earthquakes bruise the city—car horns, distant sirens, the hum of life pressing. But inside me, that tremor is not fear. It’s the ground reshaping.
I pull back from the screen, fingers trembling. I blow out the lamp, let the darkness swallow the room. But the image lingers behind my eyelids. The secret is still there, intact, untouched. But now there’s space to bury it or reveal it.
I curl into my bed. The pillow smells like him. I breathe deep. Dream of nothing but laughter and light. For once, not haunted—but alive.