Chapter 23 If Only it Were Real

Kai sat alone in the quiet of their new home, back leaned against the frame of his bed, arms draped loosely across his knees. The girls were still out, laughter and chatter likely echoing through the market square. But here, in this room, silence stretched out like a soft blanket pulled over his mind.

The mattress beneath him still felt strange. It was too soft. Too clean. Too generous. He wasn’t used to this kind of comfort. Back then, he slept curled up on hard floors—corners where the cold bit into his spine, where he was out of the way and easier to ignore. This bed had linen that smelled like lavender and warmth. It was hard to believe it was his.

A cracked window let in a soft breeze, lifting the curtain just enough to show the sky turning gold outside. He could hear merchants faintly, their voices fading under the sound of wind and birds.

He should have felt at peace. But silence opened doors in his mind he didn’t always want open.

He missed his children.

Not their mother. Not the woman who raised her voice more often than her hand, who twisted guilt into loyalty and silence into shame. But the children—his boys—he missed them every minute.

They were the only ones who had looked at him without judgment. Without fear. The only ones who still reached for him when he felt like he was vanishing.

“I’m sorry Mom hurts you. I love you as you are. Te amo, Tata.”

His oldest son had whispered that once, after crawling into his lap behind the locked bathroom door. The bruise had been deep, but the words had sunk deeper.

Kai pulled a coin from his coat pocket. It was small and worn, with a scratch shaped like a crescent moon. One of his boys gave it to him at a noisy street fair. Said it was lucky. He still kept it, even now.

He turned it over in his fingers, slow and steady.

This world—this strange, impossible dream—had given him something unexpected. Three girls. Not his children, not even close. But something about Skye’s quiet concern, Fara’s calm loyalty, and Revoli’s chaotic affection… it made the silence easier to bear.

They weren’t perfect. Neither was he. But together, it started to feel like family.

Which is why he didn’t trust it.

It was too much. Too good. Too kind.

There was no yelling here when he moved too slowly. No threats if he didn’t pick up the right item at the store. No shame for eating the last piece of bread. No cold shoulders, no passive punishment.

No one here made him feel like a burden.

Here, no one said he wasn’t enough.

And for the first time, he started to believe it.

He imagined his boys here. Sitting on soft rugs near the fireplace, laughing while Revoli tried to cook, or listening to Skye tell wild stories. Maybe even learning magic from Fara, curling up next to her tails like they were safe.

If he could bring them here, he would.

But their bodies were fragile. Too many doctor visits. Too many nights with machines humming beside their beds. He couldn’t risk it—not even for peace.

So he repeated the same thing he always did.

“When I wake up… I’ll see them again.”

He smiled. Just a little. But it didn’t reach his eyes.

Then came the memory. Her.

The second he stepped through that old front door, she’d hand him a list. Point out everything he’d forgotten. Then, maybe, if she was in a generous mood, she’d offer a kiss or a passing touch. Not out of love—but control. A reward for obedience.

There were no reward systems here. No power games. No fear.

Just people.

Just rest.

Here, there was peace.

And Kai, for once in his life, let himself want it.

He leaned back against the bedframe and exhaled, turning the coin once more between his fingers.

But something tugged at the edge of his attention.

The shadow in the far corner of the room had stretched. Just slightly. Longer than it should’ve been.

He blinked.

A faint creak echoed from the hall. The curtain fluttered, but the wind was still.

Must be tired, he thought.

Still… the feeling lingered.