When things go right for once.
I hadn't called her in weeks.
I told myself I was busy. Miscellaneous. Reports. Excuses that felt thinner each time I said them out loud.
The truth?
I didn't know what to say.
Mom had gone to live with Chakan after everything—after I broke down in front of her kitchen sink, after she tried to hug me and I flinched. Not from her, but from the past clawing up my spine.
She shouted. She scolded. All was left to see her cry.
She just packed a small bag and said, "I think I'll go spend some time with Dad."
And left.
Did she hear me shouting? Asking her to not leave?
I doubt when she looks at me blankly without any emotions. Have they dried off?
...….
Now, I stood in front of Chakan's home, heart beating like I was fifteen again—fresh from my first failed mission, terrified she'd hate me for bleeding.
But she never hated me.
She just didn't know how to hold a version of me she didn't recognize.
She was on the porch, knitting. Her hands paused when she saw me.
"Moon," she said simply, like it was still the name of her little girl and not a mask used in government files.
"Hi, Ma."
"You came alone?"
I nodded. "Dad might come if I had informed him, but not this time."
She gave a small hum. Approval? Disappointment? I couldn't tell.
I sat beside her, listening to the soft wind and Chakan's radio murmuring a classic music from inside.
"I miss you," I said.
She didn't respond.
"I know I made it hard to stay," I added, eyes on the dried hibiscus by the steps. "But you leaving… that broke something I'd spent years trying to keep whole."
Her voice was low. "You came back from the field different. Harder. Sadder."
"I was trying to protect you," I whispered.
"I didn't need protection," she said, finally looking at me. "I needed my daughter."
I swallowed. "She's still here. Underneath the cold, the quiet, the files—she's here. Scared. Tired. But here."
Her hand moved to mine.
Warm. Familiar.
"You didn't call," she said softly.
"I didn't know if I deserved to."
"You always deserve a home, Moon."
My throat clenched.
"Then come back with me," I said. "Come home, Ma. Please. I need someone to remind me that softness isn't weakness."
She studied me for a long moment. Then smiled, just a little.
"Help me pack Grandpa's snacks. I'll come."
I exhaled for the first time in weeks.
Not as an agent.
Not as a weapon.
Just as her daughter.
[Later that evening, in Chakan's home]
Chakan's house was old but not fragile—like him. The walls were thick with stories, the wooden shelves sagged under the weight of dusty books and antique clocks, and the air smelled faintly of sandalwood. What am I in?
It was strange… how time slowed here.
Like the world knew this house didn't belong to it anymore.
Mom was in the kitchen, folding soft dough into soft breeds. I watched her hum quietly to herself, just like she used to when I was small—when things were simpler. When my bruises came from falling off bicycles and not dodging bullets.
Grandpa was in his favorite chair, bent over a crossword puzzle with a frown on his face like the English words personally insulted him.
"Dad," Mom called, "she's going to take me home."
Chakan looked up. His eyes were sharp, but softer around the edges now. Time had carved patience into him.
He set the paper aside and waved me over.
I walked closer, unsure. It had been years since we'd spoken more than a stranger sights.
"You still carry that weight in your shoulders, girl," he said, squinting at me. "Just like your father."
I smiled faintly. "And your stubbornness, Grandfather."
He chuckled. "Poor combination."
Then he reached into the side drawer, pulled out a wrapped packet of his famous jackfruit chips, and tossed it toward me.
"Peace offering," he said. "Don't say I never gave you anything." It's when i saw an invisible child gradually disappearing in the thin air. Will he forget his young self soon? Doesn't he miss him anymore?
Doesn't that haunt him anymore?
I caught it mid-air and laughed.
The sound surprised all three of us.
It had been too long.
We ate dinner together on the veranda—simple food, but it tasted like a memory. I sat between Mom and Chakan, our plates balanced on the glass table, the warm evening wrapping around us like a quiet blessing.
"Promise me one thing," Chakan said after a while, looking out toward the trees. "Don't forget where you come from, no matter how far you go."
"I won't," I said.
He turned to my Mom. "She needs you, you know."
"I know, Dad." she whispered.
And then he looked at me—his gaze tired, proud, and endless.
"She'll always be your home," he said. "But don't forget—you're hers too."
We left early the next morning.
Mom beside me in the passenger seat, quietly looking out the window.
Grandfather stood at the gate, hands behind his back, watching us drive away. I caught his reflection in the rearview mirror until the trees swallowed him whole.
I didn't say goodbye.
I'd be back.
For now, I was just glad to bring a piece of peace home with me.
...…
I sat up straight. Not scared. Or screaming. A normal way through a beautiful dream. Finally there's peace in my sleep. Far better than those nights – I'd sleep hearing the soft sobs and gasps of Ren. He'll never know that I hear him every night.
My eyes never rested unless he went silent.
"Sounds better now."