Chapter 33.5 - how we got together (Part 8)

Natalie – Present Day (Narration)

Well… that’s how I got acquainted with Alex.
Not exactly romantic, right?
A chaos-filled lunchroom, a roll of toilet paper on his pants, a stink bomb made of sambal and petai…
And somehow, that was the beginning of whatever this is.

But…
That still doesn’t explain how I got myself into this mess.
Much less how I fell in—
Ugh…
In love.

Back then, love was like advanced calculus to me.
Foreign. Confusing. Unnecessary.

I mean…
What is love supposed to feel like anyway?

Alex – Present Day (Narration)

I think back to those days sometimes…
When everything was so loud and messy—yet somehow quiet in my head.

I didn’t even care about Frederica at that point.
Which… I guess is a good thing.
Or maybe…

Maybe it’s because I started to see Natalie as someone who—
…Ugh. Never mind.

Let’s just say… whatever it was, it wasn’t nothing.

Natalie Side -

Finally.
Saturday.
My sacred day.

The sky’s painted with soft gold, birds are chirping outside my window, and for once, the world isn’t throwing boys, drama, or nonsense at me.

I sit by the window, flipping open my sketchbook.
Today’s the day for fashion design—my escape.

I slip on my headphones, insert the cassette, and press play.
“Blue Monday” by New Order starts humming in my ears.
That electric beat, that nostalgic 80s energy… it’s perfect.

With my Walkman at full volume, I dive into my world—pencils scratching, fabric swatches flying, thread and scissors dancing across the table.
I get hit with a lightning bolt of inspiration.

“OHHH YES!”
I mumble to myself, instantly grabbing a flannelette shirt and twisting it into a makeshift skirt.
Lace for the blouse.
Minimalist, but edgy. Vintage, but rebellious.

I try it on, adjust a few pins, then pull my hair back and comb it into a sleeker shape.
A soft bob, styled like a retro pop star.

I turn to the mirror—

…And I freeze.

"Wait—why am I thinking about... Alex?!"
EKKKK!!! 😖

I slap my cheeks.
No. No no no no NO.
What the hell brain!?

I shut my sketchbook and take a deep breath.

But before I can fully reboot my system, I hear ahem—
A familiar voice at the door.

“Uh-huh... what’s my little bird up to?”
My dad.
Leaning against the doorframe.
Smirking.

I yelp and nearly toss my Walkman.

“D-Dad! Don’t sneak up like that!”
I clutch my design book like it's a sacred relic.

He steps in, eyes twinkling as he scans my outfit.
“Mmm... cute. You look like someone ready for a magazine shoot.”

I blush. “I was just… experimenting. Fashion-wise.”

I flip open the book to distract myself and show him the design.

He nods, tapping his chin.
“Creative. You’ve got taste. Got that from your mom.”
He pauses, then raises a brow.
“So... you mentioned Alex yesterday?”

“Uh—yeah! I mean—” I fumble for words.

“Something about his answer in history class, right?”

I nod. “Yeah… he said something… really deep. About colonization. I didn’t expect that from him.”

Dad grins.
“That boy’s sharp. He absorbs things like a sponge. I’d bet his mom's the reason—she must have raised him with a world of stories.”

I blink.
“Wait, how do you know?”

He shrugs. “Let’s just say... I’ve seen that type of kid before. Quiet on the surface. Storm underneath.”

“Huh…”
Storm underneath, huh?

He pats my head like I’m still five.
“Anyway, you’ve got good instincts. Keep drawing, Nat. Who knows, maybe someday you’ll design a line that changes the world.”

I smile.
Then immediately panic when I realize the sketch beside the design is…
a doodle of Alex’s dumb face.

With hearts around it.

“GYAAAHHHH!!!”

I slam the book shut and hide it behind my back.
Dad’s eyes twinkle like he definitely saw it but says nothing.

He just laughs and walks out, whistling.
I fall face-first on my desk.

(Present-day Natalie – narration)
And maybe...

That’s when it started.

Not with flowers.
Not with butterflies.

But with toilet jokes, scribbled hearts, and one really annoying, brilliant, reckless boy.

And just like that—

I was no longer clueless.

I pop the cassette into my Sony Walkman and press play with a satisfying click.
🎶 "Blue Monday" by New Order kicks in—its synth beats echo in my ears, thumping like the sound of a heartbeat in a neon-lit club.

Wearing an oversized flannel shirt over my graphic tee and faded denim shorts, I swing my feet back and forth, flipping through pages of my sketchbook while chewing on a cherry-flavored Bubble Yum.
My lava lamp gurgles in the corner, and the scent of peach body spray lingers in the air.

My eyes land on the poster on the wall—a grainy photo of New York’s Times Square with bold, glittery letters:

✨ CFDA Awards & NY Fashion Week Coming to Arizona ✨
Phoenix Auditions – VIP Guest: Ayanna Cruz (Supermodel)
Hiroshi Tateyama (Designer of the Year)

A fire sparks inside me. 🔥
Like, this is my shot. My literal, real-life Clueless transformation scene waiting to happen.

“Okay, Nat… focus,” I whisper, tightening my scrunchie and grabbing my mechanical pencil.

I flip to a fresh page and start sketching.
The dress flows in my mind—part Riot Grrrl, part high-fashion runway.
Combat boots with sheer stockings.
A plaid skirt with frayed edges.
A corset-top blouse with lace sleeves—equal parts rebellion and elegance.
I imagine it with butterfly clips and tinted sunglasses.

“I need something grunge meets glam. Like if Courtney Love and Naomi Campbell had a fashion baby…”

I step in front of the mirror, holding the design over my body.
Then, like something out of a 90s teen makeover montage, I start assembling it.
Sewing. Cutting. Pinning. Twisting. Styling.
All while headbanging lightly to the beat.

The result?

“Whoa.”
I twirl once.
The lace catches the light. The plaid flows like fire.
I look like I’m ready to walk down a catwalk… or maybe star in my own TRL music video.

Then—record scratch—why the hell is Alex popping into my head!?

My eyes widen.

“Ugh! Why am I thinking about him? Again?!”
I tug at my hair and groan, collapsing onto my beanbag chair.
The Walkman keeps playing.
🎶 "How does it feel…?"

I cover my face with my sketchbook.

“For now… I need something… something to complete the vision. Maybe... a male model.
Ugh… not that kind of male. Definitely not him.

Still, I needed structure. Masculine shape. Character. Bold energy.
And well… when in doubt? Call Dad.”

I hop down from my attic-turned-design loft, skipping the last two steps.
Dad’s in his study, hunched over a stack of papers, the scent of strong coffee hanging in the air.
He looks up at me over the rim of his reading glasses, eyes as sharp as ever—one hand still flipping through paperwork, the other casually holding a pencil like a dagger.

It’s kind of wild—how a Native American man, often dressed in flannel and denim, can pull off that whole intellectual vibe without even trying.

“Okay... what’s up, little hawk?” he says, raising an eyebrow.

“Umm…” I clutch my sketchbook tightly to my chest. “Dad… can you be my model?”

He blinks. “Model? For what—one of your weird concept pieces with feathers and lace again?”

“No! I mean—maybe... but for menswear. I need a base to shape from.”

He chuckles and sets his work aside. “Well, I ain’t no Calvin Klein, but sure, let’s give it a shot.”

We head back up to the attic, which I’ve transformed into a cozy little design sanctuary.
Bolts of fabric line the walls. Old CDs spin quietly in the background—today it's Sade on repeat.
The warm light from the window paints everything golden. ✨

I pull out my measuring tape like a pro.

“Arms up.”

“Is this gonna be tight on the belly?” Dad grins.

“Dad!”

“I’m just asking!”

I take his measurements quickly, scribbling notes, biting my pen between my teeth, flipping through textile samples.
Velvet? No. Too heavy.
Denim? Obvious.
Twill and lined cotton? Maybe a military cut…

Then like a bolt of inspiration, I see it.
Clean lines. Subtle power. Sharp collar. Layered vintage street and indigenous motifs—stitched into something that says:
“I am proud, I am rooted, I am modern.”

I cut. Sew. Adjust.
Dad stands still like a statue, humming an old folk tune under his breath while I work like a storm around him.

Finally—done.

“Alright,” I say, tugging at the sleeve, “you can look now.”

He turns toward the full-length mirror.

“…Whoa.”

He turns again, smoothing the front of the tailored vest I made with gold-threaded embroidery.
“It’s like… something I’d wear to a ceremony. Or a red carpet. You sure this ain’t for me to show off downtown?”

I smile, biting my lip. “It's almost perfect…”

Mom peeks her head in. “You’re done already?”

“Claire! Get in here!” Dad calls, proud like he’s just won an award.

Mom steps in—and gasps. “That… that’s incredible, Nat.”

But I mutter under my breath, staring at the sketch again. “Still… something’s missing…”

“Huh?” both of them ask.

“I mean… this is good but… it’s missing energy. That pop…”

Then it hits me like lightning.

“Phylis!!”

My sister barges in wearing her oversized hoodie and munching on crackers.

“Huh?”

“Stand here. Don’t ask questions. Just stand.”

We position her opposite of Dad, like balancing masculine and feminine energy.
Suddenly the design breathes—like yin and yang, like history and future, like—
Alex and me—

—wait what!?

(Present-day Natalie narration)
“No. No no no. I wasn’t thinking that.

Okay maybe a little.

But watching my family standing there—woven into my work—reminded me what passion feels like.
And maybe, just maybe, why Alex kept slipping into my thoughts.”

As they pose, laughing and fidgeting, I snap photos with Mom’s chunky 90s film camera.
I glance at the window, golden light pouring in.

And for a moment—it feels like I’m living inside a dream.

- Alex Side -

(Present-day Alex, narrating)
“Every legend begins with a humble origin.
Some heroes get swords…
Me?
I got a used, suspiciously rattly Volkswagen Golf.”

Mom stands there in the driveway, arms crossed, lips curled into a proud smile like she just won a jackpot at a bingo tournament.

“There she is! Our new baby!” she says, patting the old silver hood as if it’s a prized stallion.

I squint at it.

A 1990-something Volkswagen Golf.
Dusty. A couple of dents. One of the headlights looking at me sideways.
The kind of car that looks like it has trauma.

“…Uh huh. Is this even safe?” I ask flatly, circling it like it’s about to explode.

I give the front bumper a light kick with my foot—just to test it.

CLANK!

Something metal drops from underneath and rolls across the pavement with a hollow ting-ting-ting…

“…What the hell was that!?”

Mom suddenly shrieks, “ALEXANDER IMRAN!!! DON’T KICK THE CAR!!”
She rushes to pick up the fallen part like it’s a lost child.

“Relax, I was just—checking the structural integrity!” I say, holding my hands up.

“It’s fine! This baby runs great!” she huffs, stuffing the part into the backseat like she’s done this before.

(Internal monologue)
“Yeah, runs great straight into the afterlife maybe…”

Still, I gotta admit… compared to walking everywhere or cramming into Faiz’s bike like we’re in a bad tokusatsu sidecar scene—this was a level up.

“Alright,” I sigh, tossing my bag in the back, “at least we have a vehicle to escape in now if anything explodes…”

Mom gives me that look—half proud, half if-you-don’t-zip-it-I’ll-leave-you-on-the-road.

She gets in, adjusts the mirror like a pro… and turns the key.

VROOOM… krkkrrK-K-KRRK… SPUTTER-PUTT… cough…!!!

We both pause.

A beat of silence.

Then she slaps the dashboard and shouts, “COME ON, BABY! DON’T EMBARRASS ME!!”

The engine roars back to life.

“…Okay. That was cool,” I admit, blinking.

Mom turns to me with a smug grin. “Told you. Old things got soul.”

(Present-day Alex, narrating)
“Maybe she’s right.
Maybe some broken-down things still run if you give them the right driver.
…Just like me.”

The car wheezes like an old man with a flu.

Mom snaps the baby seat into the back and carefully buckles Hana in, who’s already giggling like this is some theme park ride.
Meanwhile, I’m staring at the tin can on wheels we're about to enter like it's going to implode at any second.

“We all set?” Mom says, trying to sound confident.

Hana kicks her legs in excitement. “Go go go!!”

(Internal monologue)
“Right…
Go… straight into the scrapyard.”

I climb into the passenger seat slowly, still half-expecting something to fall off.

Just as Mom starts adjusting the seat and clutching the steering wheel like she’s preparing for battle, she turns to me and says with the most casual tone—

“Kinda feel like checking out the East Valley today.”

“…Sure,” I mutter, uneasily buckling my seatbelt.
There’s a chill crawling up my spine.
Bad feeling. Really bad feeling.
Like horror movie soundtrack-level bad.

(Internal monologue)
“Why does that sound like a side quest that ends in a police report?”

I glance sideways at Mom.

Her hands are shaking a little.
Eyebrows furrowed.
Mouth pulled into a thin line.

Hold up.

“…Uh, Mom? Just checking… do you actually know how to drive?”

Her head slowly turns to me like something out of a suspense anime.

“Shut. Up.”
That glare could melt steel beams.

(Internal monologue)
“So that’s a ‘no.’ Got it.”

The car lurches forward with a cough and a wheeze.
Mom mumbles a prayer under her breath.
And yet… somehow… miraculously…
It moves.

“It’s… moving,” I whisper in disbelief.

“Yes, I know it’s moving!!” she snaps, eyes wide and glued to the road like it’s a minefield.

The engine rattles like it’s coughing up blood, but we crawl forward at a breathtaking five miles per hour.
I clutch the door handle with white knuckles, face frozen in pure dread.

🥶
“This is how I die… death by jalopy.”

Halfway through the neighborhood, Mom squints at the dashboard.

“…Uh-oh. Looks like the fuel’s low.”

I turn my head slowly. “Mom… where the heck did you even get this thing?”

She shrugs, completely unfazed. “Oh. Some guy just gave it to us. Said it was ‘an opportunity.’”

“‘An opportunity’ for what? A lawsuit?!”

(Internal monologue)
“This is a stolen car. I’m 99.9% sure we’re driving a stolen car.”

I crane my neck around, expecting to see flashing red-and-blue lights behind us any moment.
Nothing.
Yet.

“Mom,” I say slowly, “did you check if it had, y’know… paperwork?
License? Registration? VIN number? A soul?”

She slaps the dashboard lightly. “Don’t worry, it runs. That’s all that matters.”

(Internal monologue)
“That’s exactly what someone says before the brakes fail.”

The car backfires as we round a corner, and I swear a stray cat jumps six feet in the air and runs off like it saw a ghost.

Hana squeals with delight. “Again!! Again!!”

I sigh and lean my head back.

The car rolls at a snail’s pace, wobbling slightly every time Mom taps the brakes like they owe her money. Her hands are locked on the steering wheel like it’s a wild animal trying to bite back.

Vrrrrr... krrrk... wheeeeeze...

We finally crawl into the gas station lot.
Barely.
I think the car actually sighs in relief when Mom yanks the handbrake.

The moment the vehicle shudders to a stop, I throw the door open like I’ve just escaped a burning spaceship.

“LAAAAAND!!! SWEET, HOLY LAND!!”

I drop to my knees and kiss the cracked pavement like a rescued castaway.

A tumbleweed rolls past. Someone snickers.

Mom leans out the driver’s side, raising an unimpressed eyebrow. “Yeah... real dramatic, son. They should give you an Oscar for that.”

(Internal monologue)
“I deserve one. At least a nomination. That ride was trauma.”

A couple of bystanders glance over, confused. One guy in a cowboy hat gives me a slow clap. Another lady whispers to her kid, “Honey, don’t ever do drugs.”

Mom heads toward the pump, trying to act normal, while I crawl back into the backseat with Hana.

She’s got her little hands pressed against the window, eyes wide with awe at the big, dusty world beyond.

“Lookin’ around, eh, Hana?” I smile, still recovering.

She nods furiously. “Oooo!!! Again!!!”

(Internal monologue)
“You say that because you weren’t the one about to have a heart attack.”

I lean back, letting her climb into my lap. Her tiny finger points at everything—cars, a barking chihuahua tied near the store entrance, a guy with a neon green mullet.

“Ooooo!!! Monster!!” she says, pointing at the mullet guy.

I squint. “…Okay yeah, you’re not wrong.”

We both giggle as I bounce her gently on my knee. She squeals.

Outside, Mom’s wrestling with the fuel cap like it owes her money.

“HURGH—OPEN, YOU STUBBORN PIECE OF—”

Click.

Mom freezes, then looks around proudly like she just defused a bomb.

(Internal monologue)
“That’s my mom… beginner driver, advanced survivalist.”

Meanwhile, Hana has pulled my hoodie over her own head, giggling like a little gremlin.

“RAWR!! Again!!!!!”

“Hey! I was desperate!”

She cackles. Her laugh is the kind that fills the air like wind chimes.

I glance out the window, watching Mom finally insert the nozzle and pat the car like a wounded horse.

For a moment, things feel oddly peaceful.

No chaos.
No fights.
No crazy rumors about me and Natalie.
Just this tiny family in a rickety car, surviving another day.

Five.
Freakin’.
Hours.

Of nothing but sand, rocks, sun-blasted highway, and the occasional broken billboard warning about "rattlesnakes ahead" or "alien abduction zones."

My butt is numb. Hana fell asleep twice and woke up confused both times. And the car? I swear it cried.

Sputter… cough… vrrrrrrrrrrrrr…

At long last, we pull off the highway onto a winding dirt road. I blink, adjusting to the view.

And then it hits me.

A canyon. Not just a canyon—the canyon. Painted in hues of red, gold, and fire-scarlet, cliffs towering like sleeping giants carved by gods. Wind carries the smell of sage and sun-baked earth.

Mom parks the car with a proud grin.

"Beautiful, right?" she says, almost breathless.

I step out, still holding Hana who’s clutching her bottle like it’s sacred.

"It’s just... desert," I mutter, trying to sound unimpressed.

But I can't lie. It's peaceful. Way too peaceful. Like, suspiciously peaceful.

“…but yeah,” I add, “it’s kinda nice.”

The wind whips gently. A hawk cries in the distance.

I shift Hana to one side, then pause as I see Mom opening the trunk—and that’s when the real trouble begins.

“…uh, Mom?”

She’s strapping on climbing gear. Tightening straps. Equipping tools. Pulling out a notebook?

“…what the heck are you doing?”

She grins like Lara Croft with a mom-cut. “Research.”

“Huh?”

“For my cultural anthropology paper. Hopi tribe migration trails. This site? It’s sacred. Possibly ancient settlement built into the canyon wall. Now come here—both of you.”

“Waitwaitwait—why do I have a harness now?!”

Before I can even finish my protest, I’m strapped up like a confused mountain goat with Hana dangling from my chest in a baby sling. Her pacifier bounces with every step.

She’s laughing.

I’m not.

“You know, normal moms go to libraries.”

Mom winks. “That’s why I’m not normal.”

We descend.

The path leads us down a winding trail, narrow and sandy, sun blazing on our backs. Shadows stretch like spirits dancing along the canyon’s curves.

Finally, we reach it—a hidden alcove built into the cliffside.

Stone structures fused into red rock, doorways no higher than my shoulder. Sunlight glints off pottery shards and ancient petroglyphs etched into the wall like a message from the past.

The air changes.

Cool. Still. Sacred.

“…whoa.”

Even Hana stops chewing her pacifier.

Then, Mom raises her hand.

“Wait… Son. Stay quiet.”

She steps forward, kneels before a stone arch, and lowers her voice.

"Hataał hashkéé, shí éí Naanishgóó yishááh."
(‘Greetings, ancestor. I come from a distant land.’)

Her voice echoes, bouncing gently between the canyon walls.

I blink. Something about that felt… real. Ancient. Heavy.

(Internal monologue)
Mom taught me languages most kids never even heard of.
Not Japanese. Not French.
Not even Spanish.

She taught me the language of ghosts.
The words of the earth.
A tongue whispered by wind and fire long before any empire was built.

I used to think it was weird.

Now?

Standing here?

It feels like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

Just as the shadows began to stretch long over the canyon ridges, a faint figure appeared from the distance—moving with quiet steps, almost blending into the terrain.

Two men approached us with warm smiles, both dressed in woven garments embroidered with patterns that seemed to breathe with the wind itself. One of them, sharp-eyed and calm like an eagle, stepped forward and greeted us in a deep, steady voice:

"Diné Bikéyahgóó yá'át'ééh."
"Welcome to the Navajo Nation."

I stood still, the sound of that language resonating in a strange part of me I didn’t know existed.

Mom returned the smile, bowing slightly in respect. “Thank you,” she replied softly, before switching to English. “Yes, I’m a student from Arizona University—my name’s Mas. And these two are my children.”

She gestured to me and to Hana, who was now dozing peacefully in the baby sling across my chest, pacifier tilted to one side like she just knocked out mid-battle.

The older man blinked, pleasantly surprised. “You brought them here? Into the old lands?”

“My pride,” Mom said, a gentle smile on her lips. “I want them to learn the world before it teaches them the wrong things.”

I nodded sheepishly, scratching the back of my head.

“Uh, Mom? What about school?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Tomorrow’s Sunday.”

“…Oh.” I pretend I knew that. “Right. Totally.”

Mom’s usual research meant dragging me across deserts, jungles, or remote mountaintops like I was her unpaid university assistant-slash-luggage boy. Still, I didn’t mind. Not entirely.

Later, she was deep in discussion with the locals while sorting through her field notes. Meanwhile, I wandered off into the dusk with Hana still gently snoring against me, her tiny hands gripping the straps of my hoodie.

We walked through an open space near the settlement, carved with murals and symbols in the cliff walls. They seemed to whisper history through the stones.

I paused, staring at the painted spiral and geometric figures. They felt... familiar. Echoes of Long Pasia. The village. The jungle. Her.

Frederica… what are you doing now…?

That thought hit harder than I expected.

A voice stirred me from my thoughts.

“You have strong eyes, boy.”

I turned around to see one of the men from before. He walked slowly, hands behind his back.

“How old are you?”

“Ten… I think,” I muttered, still caught off-guard.

He chuckled. “You carry yourself like someone older. Almost a man before being a boy. That’s rare.”

I don’t know why—but I blushed a little. “Uh… thanks?”

He gestured for me to follow. “Come. Let me show you something.”

We entered what looked like a sacred courtyard, carved into the rocks and open to the sky above. It was already nightfall. A group had gathered around a massive bonfire in the center, the flames twisting and crackling with life.

Suddenly, the drumming began.

Low. Rhythmic. Primeval.

I stood still, watching the shadows move across the dancers' faces. Their feet pounded into the red earth with each beat, while feathers swirled in the air like echoes of ancient wings.

Mom appeared beside me, her expression calm, almost reverent.

“This is a ceremony,” she whispered. “A prayer… a way of honoring the fire, the land, the ancestors.”

I nodded. “Yeah… I can feel it. Just like… back in Long Pasia.”

The heat of the flames, the rhythm of the drums—it stirred something inside me. A memory. A name. A pair of blue eyes and a voice that always said, “Don’t cry, Alex. I’ll punch the storm for you.”

Frederica…

For a split second, I could see her across the fire—barefoot, laughing, her hair caught in the wind like a wild river.

I blink. She's gone.

But that feeling lingers.

The music grows. The dance intensifies. The flame bursts skyward—and for a moment time slows down, the fire’s light reflecting in my eyes.

One day… I’ll understand all of this. This land. My place. And maybe even... what I’m really running from.

I hold Hana close, her tiny breaths soft against my chest, like the whispers of a lullaby no one remembers the lyrics to. Her warmth keeps me grounded—here, in this strange place that somehow feels more like home than anywhere else.

The flames of the ceremonial fire flicker low now, just embers dancing with the desert wind. Most of the others have gone to sleep. Mom is already curled up, resting peacefully with the thick travel blanket over her shoulders. Her features are calm, even in sleep—strong, like someone who carries the weight of history without complaint.

Gently, I lay Hana down beside her, tucking her in carefully. She stirs, but doesn’t wake. Just lets out a little “mmpfh…” before slipping back into her dreams.

I step away, drawn by something—maybe the silence, or maybe the way the desert night calls you out like an old friend you haven't seen in years.

The horizon stretches endlessly before me, bathed in silver light. The sky isn’t black here—no, it’s like a deep navy ocean, scattered with millions of tiny stars. Like specks of history suspended in time, all watching, waiting.

And then—

A shooting star blazes across the sky.

A perfect arc of fire.

In that moment, I remember what I’m supposed to do. Make a wish, right?

But I stare at it, blinking… and the only thing that slips from my lips is:

“Funny… I don’t have a wish.”

Not anymore. Not right now.

I just… smile.

The kind of quiet, small smile that doesn’t need anyone to see it.

Out here, in the silence of the Navajo Nation, under the watchful gaze of stars older than empires, I feel something stirring. Something old. Something real.

Like the land is speaking… not in words, but in presence.

The skies that should be dark… are glittering.
As if they remember every soul that once stood here…
As if they’re watching the next chapter begin.

I take a deep breath, letting it all soak in. The cool wind. The scent of earth. The ghosts of memory.

No monsters. No fighting. No nightmares tonight.
Just stars… and a story waiting to be told.

And somewhere deep in my chest—where I usually hide the pain—I feel something quietly burning.

Hope? Maybe.

Adventure? Definitely.

Love? I wouldn’t know… not yet.

But I’ll find out.

To be continued.