Tariq heard something—faint.
Someone calling his name.
But he didn't care.
His home was right in front of him. His parents.
Nothing else mattered.
Something struck his arm.
He didn't flinch.
He just kept walking. Straight up the porch steps. To the front door.
He took a breath, steadying himself.
Raised his hand—and lightly knocked, careful not to punch through the wood.
A few agonizing seconds passed.
Then the door creaked open.
His mother peeked out.
"Tariq?" she gasped, eyes wide. "You're okay!"
She called over her shoulder, "Darren, he's here!" and swung the door open.
There she was.
His calm. His wisdom. His mom.
A few more wrinkles, sure—but still radiant. Still her.
Tariq stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her.
"Mom… I don't know what's happening to me."
She pulled him close, embracing him tightly. "You look like hell, boy. Come inside. We'll talk about it."
She let go, and something flickered in her eyes—surprise? Uncertainty? But it vanished, replaced by that familiar warm smile.
She stepped aside.
He walked in.
The door closed and locked behind him.
The hallway was exactly as he remembered. Long and narrow, opening into the kitchen. The living room to his left. The staircase to his right, leading up to his old room.
His breath slowed. His heart steadied.
Home.
Wiping his tears, he made his way into the kitchen.
There was his dad.
Bald—though he always swore there was a patch of hair hanging on somewhere. His light skin and equally light brown eyes were locked on the newspaper in his hand. His favorite robe draped lazily over his frame.
He looked up as Tariq entered.
"What are you doing here?" he asked. "You need to leave."
Tariq froze. The words hit like a slap.
He opened his mouth, confused—but his mother cut in.
"Darren, stop it. Don't be like that. Our family can finally be complete."
The way she said it made Tariq pause.
But he pushed the doubt aside and stepped forward, reaching to hug his father.
Darren stood.
And shoved him back hard.
"Get out," he barked. "Now."
"DARREN!" his mother shouted, stepping between them.
He turned to her, breathing hard. "I'm sorry, Sia. It's just—"
"Don't you dare," she snapped, eyes sharp. "You've never acted like this. Don't you dare do this now."
His father sank back into the chair, defeated.
That was his mom—strong-willed, immovable, always ready to defend him.
She moved to the fridge. "Take a seat, baby. I'll warm you up some leftovers. I made enchiladas last night!"
Tariq sat at the table, eyes drifting across the kitchen as she fixed his plate.
The white cabinets his father hated. The dark blue wallpaper. The sunlit window lined with her plants—the ones she always bragged about.
Then he noticed them.
Dead.
Every one of them.
But she'd always said, "I'll die before I let my plants go before their time."
So why were they gone?
A hand touched his arm.
Tariq turned.
His father leaned in, voice low. "You need to leave, son. You can't stay here."
Tariq's mouth opened in protest, but his mother cut in sharply from across the kitchen.
"Darren... what did I just say?"
She hadn't even looked at them.
How did she hear that?
The microwave beeped.
She pulled the plate out, added a fork, and set it gently in front of him.
"Eat up," she said sweetly. "We can talk while you eat."
Tariq ate—and talked.
Everything spilled out: the spider-student, the wolves, the werewolf, the smiling woman, the thousands dead. All of it.
When he finished, his mother stood, her eyes welling with tears.
"You've been through so much," she whispered. "Come here."
She opened her arms. "You too, Darren. This is a family hug."
They stood, and the three of them embraced.
God… this feels nice, Tariq thought, closing his eyes. Warm. Safe. Like a blanket on the coldest winter night.
He never wanted to let go.
"NO!"
His father's shout shattered the peace.
He shoved Tariq back violently. "GET HIM OUT OF HERE!"
The front door exploded open.
Zora stood in the doorway, eyes red, face streaked with tears.
"T—we have to go. NOW!"
Tariq staggered. "Zora…?"
Then his mother spoke again—too calm.
"Darren... it seems you need some discipline."
Tariq turned.
His heart dropped.
Her black hair floated weightlessly. Her mocha skin had faded pale. Her eyes—gone.
She was hovering above the floor.
His father… was gone.
In his place stood a towering suit of knight's armor, its seams glowing with faint green light.
The knight stepped between Tariq and his mother.
"Son," came his father's voice from within the armor. "You have to go. I… I can't disobey her for much longer."
"Mom... Dad..." Tariq's voice cracked. "What is this...?"
A tug at his arm.
"Tariq…" Zora's voice, gentle but urgent. "We have to go."
He turned toward her. Tears streamed down her cheeks.
"Those aren't your parents anymore."
She pulled harder.
The world around them shifted.
The walls grayed. The floorboards curled and rotted beneath their feet. The wallpaper peeled like decaying skin.
Years. Decades. It looked like the house had been abandoned for a lifetime.
Tariq's heart screamed.
His home. His family. His peace.
"Don't listen to them, Lonnie," came his mother's voice—soft. Loving. Just like always.
He looked back.
She smiled.
"Come back to me."
Zora stepped in front of him.
SLAP.
His head snapped to the side.
"Let's go, Tariq," she said, her voice breaking. "Please."
She pulled him toward the door.
Behind them, the knight groaned.
"Son… you have to go," his father said.
Then silence.
Tariq's vision blurred with tears.
He turned away—and ran with Zora out the front door.
Behind them, her voice called one last time.
"Don't worry… I'll be waiting for you to come back. I'll always be here."