Chapter 50
DARUN
The morning air is cold, crisp with rain that’s just finished.
I pull up outside Amy’s building, boots squeaking on wet pavement.
In my hand is a bouquet—jasmine and violet, her favorites—wrapped in cellophane that crinkles under my grip.
The petals dip damp, faintly bruise in my heavy fist. I taste regret in my mouth.
I step onto the stoop, the wood beneath my boots slick, the smell of damp concrete rising around me.
My heart hammers; every nerve trembles. I raise my hand to knock.
Once. Twice. The sound echoes hollow in the hallway beyond the door.
No stir from inside. No footstep. No voice.
The silence is a wall between me and her.
I stand there, the bouquet trembling. I press it closer to my chest as though it were a shield.
I search for a sign—movement behind windows, curtain flicker—but see nothing.
The door stays shut. I press my forehead to the wood.
I want to pound. I want to scream her name until the walls crack.
Instead, I place the flowers gently at the threshold, petals brushing the step.
Their scent drifts upward—fragile, poignant.
I step back, turn, and walk away, each step heavy in the morning light.
The next day dawns gray and oppressive. I arrive with her favorite takeout—steamed dumplings with redfruit glaze, jasmine-scented rice, soft buns from the bakery she loves.
I carry the box like a confession. The wrapper burns my fingers.
I stand before her door, take a deep breath, and knock.
One echo, two echo. Still no response. My throat tightens.
I set the box at the foot of the door. The aroma escapes in warm wisps: sweet glaze, warmed rice, the roast garlic she always said made the air feel like home.
It settles around the entrance. I step back.
My boots scuff on the step. I glance at the window—blank.
No movement. No light. I turn and leave again, the weight heavier by inches.
By day three, I come with nothing but a single slip of crimson paper.
I’ve written for hours. My heart poured in every line.
I fill the margins with shaky confession: I was weak.
I misstated truth. Because I was afraid.
Because I lost my way. Because I love you.
My claws indent the corners from gripping too tight.
I slip it through the crack beneath her door.
Slide it flush against the wood. Watch it disappear under the threshold.
The place she steps over every day. I linger, watching the paper’s edge disappear. No reply. No sound.
It is early evening when Libra greets me.
The sky is bruised pink and violet. I approach her building again, heart knotted.
She stands just inside the foyer doorway, clutching her stuffed fox toy.
She sees me. Her face lights, small hope flooding her expression.
Before the door can close, she breaks free and wraps her arms around my leg, legs tiny around my knee.
“D,” she whispers, voice wobbly but bright.
I bend and gather her up, inhaling her scent—clean laundry, baby shampoo, warmth. My heart rips at the contrast. I cradle her against me.
Behind her, I glimpse Amy. Her back is turned. She steps toward the staircase, then pauses, then slips away. The door closes without a sound. The lock clicks. The quiet is crushing.
I tighten my hold on Libra. Her body trembles. I lift her higher so her head rests on my shoulder. “I love you,” I murmur, voice ragged.
She presses her small face into my chest. “I love you too, D.”
Her words echo in the hallway like fragile promise. I hold her. I taste salt and grief.
I release her gently. She steps beside me, looking up at me with wide, trusting eyes. I want to mend everything in that look. I reach toward the door, then sheath my hand. I know now that love isn’t enough to push open all doors.
I leave. The hallway lights blur as I descend the stairs. In each step I feel the sting of her silence behind me. The echo of locked doors pursues me.
Rain begins outside in light patter. Drips off eaves. Wet sound. Neon blur of city through windows. I pull my coat tighter. My eyes sting. Every rejection—flowers left, food unopened, letters unclaimed, doors closed—each one is a knife that slices deeper than the last.
And yet, with Libra’s trust clinging to my sleeve, I know I must persist. I must speak truth louder than hesitation. I must rebuild not with speeches but with honesty, patience, repentance.
I sink onto a curb under a flickering streetlamp. Rain beads the pavement. The night street hums. I press a hand to my chest, feel the ache there. I whisper to the empty wind: I will not lose you both.
Rain drips from my scalp. My clothes cling to me. The smell of wet concrete, of rain-soaked air, of the city rising past me fills my lungs. I taste the promise in it. The refusal in me to vanish.
Tonight, every door is closed. But I stand, soaked, broken, determined. I will knock again. I will speak again. The gulf may be wide, but I must try to cross it for her. For our daughter. For what we once called home.