Chapter 64
In silence, Shaqar felt a balance that had almost disappeared return, realizing that support coming from outside the body could guide, granting strength to endure.
Even so, shadows of the past still clung, resembling a fog so difficult for light to penetrate.
Shaqar felt a combination of fear and relief, mingling within every heartbeat, as if the weight of the world gathered into one point in his chest.
He remembered his little grandchild, the tiniest being who was the most real reason to remain steadfast, striving not to collapse amid the waves of sorrow and regret.
This feeling, a mixture of fear of loss and inescapable responsibility, made every breath he exhaled into a ritual, a session to calm himself, an effort to fortify the foundation of his heart—even though cracks gaped wide on the surface.
"All the mistakes committed were not simply because you could not attend the family events.
Absyumura understands, truly comprehends that it was a matter of inability, and it was impossible for you to be present at that time.
And it is not right to bind recklessly, to suddenly imprison both hands and feet, even after the departure of your beloved wife.
You had explained before, had you not? Telling that shortly after your beloved wife passed away, you wanted to take leave to return home?
Unfortunately, a sudden duty arrived, and you received a direct letter of threat from the Satanist Elders.
Moreover, Those of rank who sought to dominate the satanic realm rebuked you, reminding you that without a slight intervention, our family would have nothing.
Merely vagrants without value."
The storm of emotions still hung, echoing within Shaqar's inner chamber as Absyumura's voice once again came through the communication device.
Gentle, yet filled with the sharpness of a cutting blade.
Every word delivered seemed to pierce, breaking the layers of guilt that had long bound him, reminding Shaqar that the mistakes he felt were not merely because of his absence at family gatherings.
Absyumura, with a deep understanding of Shaqar's situation, revealed, implying that the burdens pressing him were simply parts of life's great complexity, where difficult choices sometimes could not be avoided.
Shaqar's experience when his wife passed away resurfaced in his mind, the pain so sharp because he could not attend that moment.
Tears that fell behind the office door, forced to hold himself back for the sake of greater responsibilities.
Memories not easily denied.
The urge to take leave shadowed by colossal pressure, and the cruel attitude of the Satanist Elders who directly rejected and scolded his intention.
It was indeed impossible to overcome.
At that time, he tried to resist, to rebel against the stream of obligations that suddenly arrived, solely to give his last respect to his beloved wife.
But Their threats were so real and clear, making Shaqar realize that his firmness of heart had to submit, to simply bow before the rigid logic of duty, willingly confessing defeat though his heart and soul screamed in grief.
He nearly collapsed, holding back tears, bearing a weight that seemed intent on shattering every layer of resilience he had built.
Absyumura, watching from another side of Shaqar's life, gave reminders that soothed yet strengthened, affirming that the sacrifices made were not neglect or weakness, but forms of responsibility.
Sometimes unseen yet deeply valuable.
The guilt that had long bound Shaqar began to slowly subside, replaced by a new awareness of broader dimensions of responsibility and sacrifice.
Not stopping at one point, Absyumura's voice continued to echo, stressing that even though Shaqar could not always be present at every family moment, that was not the measure of a father's or a head of family's worth.
Shaqar's heart, once trapped between ego and loss, now found space to breathe, reminding him that he was still a father with limitations he must face.
"I think it's time to end this communication.
Yes, I will be there soon."
"Is it truly her?"
"Miara, your daughter.
And yes, she called me to buy spices at the shop.
So gentle, so graceful, impossible to be buried by anything.
Even by the softest blowing wind."
"...."
"It is time to go. Yet let this message be engraved deeply.
Because of you, Miara's voice, all the laughter and joy, and this loving family are freed from the prison of disaster.
Through your toil as well, the family's economy runs again, no longer stumbling like the faltering of one of the satanists.
That alone is what matters.
Once again, forgive me, I must end this."
Beeeeep!!
Shaqar held his breath for a moment as Absyumura, with a calm yet certain tone, asked permission to end the communication.
The reason was simple yet real, heard from afar yet so clear, a soft voice impossible to mistake.
Miara, the only daughter, called him with a light yet firm tone, instructing Absyumura to buy cooking spices at the shop.
In silence, Shaqar felt a strange vibration in his heart, a combination of longing and regret, for that voice carried a grace impossible to be buried even by the gentle breeze passing the headquarters window.
His daughter's voice still lingered, comfortably nesting with all the traits and ideologies that often made Shaqar feel excluded—a legacy of anger and resentment left behind because he could not fulfill the time desired for gathering, unable to be present at simple moments that should have been bridges of affection.
From Shaqar's perspective, he realized how difficult it was to understand Miara.
Her voice so clearly reflected the distance between father and daughter, shadows of all the disappointments that had piled up.
Miara, with all her grace and firmness, still rejected Shaqar's presence in most of her life, implying that protecting fellow satanists and endless busyness were harmful, seeming meaningless to her if time with her own family was neglected.
Shaqar's heart felt a hollow, a void never fully closed, gaping space that always remained when he realized that love and responsibility toward true family could not always be fulfilled as desired.
Silence cloaked the room, leaving only the echo of heavy breathing and Absyumura's calming voice, preparing to release the communication for a while.
Shaqar closed his eyes briefly, allowing every sensation and pressing memory to enter, binding guilt and longing into one knot so difficult to untangle.
He knew that though physical distance separated them, and though his absences often brought disappointment, there was a subtle thread, a bond that still connected him to his child and grandchild, always intertwined even if only through filtered voices and such brief pauses.
"At least she still wants to spend time.
Haaah—"
For this moment, the Xirkushkartum changing room felt cool, suddenly wrapped in a cold and hard sensation, filled with the scent of iron and protective oil of tools.
The light of lamps hanging high above shone on the concrete floor, reflecting Shaqar's thin and aging figure, as if waiting for an unseen enemy.
Every movement of his body was calculated, his breath heavy, yet his eyes remained fixed, staring blankly at the exorcism equipment neatly arranged on the rack.
Though the organization's busyness demanded firmness and vigilance, the echo of the voice that had just lingered in his ears clung on, creating ripples of unease among all the routines.
Shaqar felt the inability to be fully present, interpreting every step as always shadowed by guilt and unspoken longing.
In the corner of his heart, the burden pressed, creating contradictions between responsibility and yearning so hard to separate.
Yet his body still endured, carrying everything for the sake of a duty greater than himself.
The communication device that had been vibrating was now placed aside, resting quietly in his pocket, bringing a silence so strange yet soothing.
Shaqar held back, restraining the urge to check messages or voices left behind, choosing instead to calm his turbulent mind.
Amid the silence of the changing room, he felt the tension, a form of confrontation clinging in the air, residue from the exorcism ritual he and his team had just undergone.
To be continued…