Chapter 58
DARUN
The gymnasium is crowded with parents, teachers, and the low dust haze of florescent lights.
The air smells of varnished wood, old sweat, and fresh paper.
I sit in the front row, Amy beside me, both of us clutching small program books.
My heart hammers so loud I fear Libra will hear it in my silhouette.
I half expect the walls themselves to whisper that I don’t belong.
Libra steps up to the podium. She’s bright in her uniform, hair pulled back, eyes wide with both pride and nerves. The lights glare. The crowd hushes. Amy slides her hand into mine. We both lean in, taut.
She begins to read, small voice catching:
“My family is brave. Brave because truth is heavier than silence. Brave because love survives when lies fail. My mother speaks truth in the night, even when the world screams. My father returned from monsters to find me. Together we plant seeds in ruins, build roots in storms…”
Her voice falters, tears in her throat, but she steadies. I swallow the rising lump in my throat. My clawed fingers dig into my jeans. Be still, I tell myself. Then the flush of pride ignites so hot I can’t stop it.
As she continues, I feel tears rim my eyes. I grip Amy’s hand harder. I watch her—the curve of her jaw, the rawness in her voice.
When she finishes, the hall erupts in applause. It boom-echoes. I stand before the last wave has died and walk onto the stage. I hug her tightly in front of everyone. My cheeks burn. I try to speak but can’t. Amy records it, shoulder shaking. Her sniffle echoes my own.
Later, we drive away, her medal shining on the dashboard. We leave that school behind: laughter, applause, something normal. Something earned.
We move soon after. A modest house in a quiet suburb, enough yard to plant something living. The walls smell fresh—new paint, timber, sunlight through windows. Libra’s toys scatter in corners. I carry a small sapling for the backyard: a young tree, slender but ravenous for earth.
I kneel in the soft soil, glove in my hand, grit under my nails. The loam smells good—earth, possibility. I dig, roots curling. Amy stands behind me, arms folded, watching.
“Do you want help?” she offers. I laugh, a relieved sound.
I hand her the gloves. She kneels and together we slide the sapling into the hole.
I pack soil, she whispers encouragement.
We water it. The water sizzles in dry earth, darkens it.
The tree stands, fragile and proud. Wind ruffles its young leaves.
Inside, Amy retires to the study. She’s writing a book now.
Pages line the desk. The hum of her keyboard at night, soft but insistent.
I watch her, silhouette in lamplight. Sometimes I bring her tea.
We sit shoulder to shoulder. She reads me chapters—truths, memories, reflections. I correct timelines, pronounce names.
Libra learns to ride a hoverbike with stabilizers on the small driveway.
The platform hums under her boots. She squeals when she gains speed.
I run behind, arms ready. She glides, teetering, then steady.
Sweat in her hair, wind on her face. She raises her arms. I catch her when she slows.
She laughs, cheeks red, eyes lit with triumph.
We’re still poor. We read hate comments in the night, threats and curses. The web pages spike in darkiy. But we watch them together, standing shoulder to shoulder. She grips my hand. Amy rests her head on my shoulder. We’re hunted, yes—but not broken.
One night, under the soft glow of kitchen lamplight, Libra sits with me at the table. Her hair is braided. She leans forward, eyes unshadowed with childhood curiosity.
“Daddy,” she asks, “do you miss fighting?”
My heart contracts. I set my fork down. The smell of dinner lingers—garlic, steamed vegetables, bread. I lift her hand, brush fingers over knuckles. I taste salt in my throat.
“Only the parts that made me someone worth coming home to,” I say. The words tremble. She nods slowly, understanding more than she should. Amy stirs in her chair beside us. She watches me. Her eyes glisten.
Later, I sit in the dark, in the new house, listening.
The wind rustles leaves outside—the young tree, our roots pushing into earth.
The city hums beyond. Libra sleeps in her bed.
Amy yawns beside me. The weight of public battles presses far off.
Tonight, we lie in this room, in this fragile home, in the glow of survival.
I press my palm to the wall beside me, feeling timber, nails, foundation. We are rooted now. Not in power or applause, but in truth, in family, in earth. The war is still inside me. The battlefield still in memory. But tonight, in this house, we are whole.
Tomorrow the wind returns. But we have roots now. Something real that can hold us. Something that truth built. And I’ll fight every day to defend it.