[Part one]
It was the day of Lyra's birthday.
The morning sunlight poured through the open shutters like a soft river of gold, falling across the wooden floorboards of our small home. Dust drifted lazily in the air, each particle shimmering for a brief moment before disappearing into the warmth. Outside, the air carried that faint scent of wet soil—the kind that comes when the rainy season is close but hasn't yet arrived.
Mother called from the next room, her voice as melodic as ever. "Xavier! Come here, my little star!"
That phrase again. Little star. I sometimes wondered if she called me that because she saw something bright in me, or because she feared that one day I might burn out.
Before I could answer, she appeared—Christina, my mother, holding a small jar of hair gel with a smile that was both determined and loving. "Now, now," she said, stepping closer. "You cannot attend Lyra's birthday looking like you've just woken up from a storm. Sit, and let me fix your hair."
I groaned inwardly. "Mother, I don't need that. My hair is fine as it is."
But she was relentless. "Nonsense," she said, opening the jar. The sharp, sweet scent of the gel reached my nose. "It is just a little. Come, it will make you look tidy."
I took a step back. "Tidy? You mean stiff. It feels like it burns my scalp!"
She chuckled, not the least bit dissuaded. "A little sting builds character."
I raised an eyebrow. "Character? I thought honesty and kindness built character, not scalp torture."
She laughed softly, but the twinkle in her eye said she wasn't backing down. She advanced, and I retreated until my back hit the edge of the table. I held up my hands in defense. "Mother, please—"
"Just a little," she said, her voice playful yet commanding.
I tried to push her hand away, but she was surprisingly strong. My arms trembled, my energy fading fast. She was winning this battle, and she knew it.
"Now, mother, please! My hair already looks fine! What's the point of adding that awful stuff? It will only make me look… strange."
Before I could continue, she caught me off guard with a sudden movement. The gel-coated fingers found my hair, slicking it back before I could escape. I sighed in defeat as she hummed triumphantly, running her hands through my hair until every strand obeyed her will.
"There," she said, stepping back with a satisfied smile. "Perfect."
I touched my head and frowned. The gel was cool at first, then began to warm uncomfortably in the morning heat. "Not nice at all, mother," I said, adopting the tone of someone deeply wronged.
She ignored my complaint, of course, and instead clasped her hands together, her eyes sparkling as if she were admiring a painting. "You look handsome, my little star. Truly, just standing there makes me feel as if you were the Prince of Zaheya himself."
I sighed, both exasperated and fond. "The Prince of Zaheya is a fictional character, mother."
"Yes," she said with mock solemnity, "but a handsome one. And now, so are you."
She pulled me into a tight embrace before I could argue, rubbing her cheek affectionately against mine. I could feel her warmth, the faint smell of rosewater and bread dough clinging to her skin. For a moment, despite my irritation, I found myself smiling.
The Prince of Zaheya…
It was a story she loved—a tale of a young prince who fought for his kingdom and rose above every hardship. I had read it too. The prince was brave, clever, and endlessly kind. He built his empire from nothing, guided by heart rather than greed.
Mother always said that I reminded her of him.
I always thought she said that because she wanted to believe her son could be strong, even when the world wasn't kind.
I looked at her, her smile glowing with pride. "Mother," I said softly, "I am no prince."
She tilted her head. "No? Then what are you?"
"A boy," I said simply. "And this gel makes me feel like my head is on fire."
That made her laugh again—an unguarded, musical sound that filled the room like sunlight. "Oh, Xavier," she said, brushing a strand of hair from my forehead. "Do you know what they say? A true man knows no weather."
I folded my arms. "As you can see, I am not yet a man."
Her smile softened. "Yes, I know," she said. "But sometimes you speak like one. You read and write better than most boys your age. You think deeply. You notice things others don't. At times, I forget how young you are."
Her eyes grew tender, filled with something that went beyond pride. "But no matter how wise you become, you will always be my little star."
For a moment, I didn't answer. The words touched something quiet in me—a small ache that I carried but rarely acknowledged. I wasn't used to this kind of love in my previous life. The warmth of a mother's touch. The softness of a home that wasn't fractured by noise and hate.
I wanted to hold onto it.
"Thank you, mother," I said at last. My voice came out quieter than I intended.
She gave my shoulder a gentle pat and stepped back. "Now, off you go. Lyra will be waiting. You wouldn't want to keep the birthday girl waiting on her special day, would you?"
"Of course not," I said, forcing a small smile.
I turned toward the door, the weight of her affection still lingering on my chest. The air outside shimmered with heat, the sky a pale blue streaked with thin clouds. Lila had already left for the party. I could still picture her walking ahead of me earlier—her steps quick, her eyes avoiding mine.
She'd been distant lately. Ever since that day.
Mother's voice followed me to the door. "Have fun, my little star!"
I waved back. "I'll try."
As I stepped out, the sunlight pressed down on me like a hand. The gel in my hair already felt heavy, sticky, and warm. The streets were quiet except for the whisper of the wind moving through the trees. In the distance, I could hear laughter—faint and fleeting.
I walked slowly, letting my thoughts wander.
Birthdays. Joy. Guilt. Love. They all felt like colors blending into one another, forming something both beautiful and hard to understand.
I wondered if Lyra would look different today.
I wondered if Lila would still refuse to look at me.
And somewhere beneath those thoughts, another voice whispered faintly—a remnant from the life I'd left behind.
Do not waste this one too.
[Part two]
The road to Lyra's house wound between small cottages, their clay walls warm under the midday sun. The scent of blooming saffra flowers drifted from the gardens, sweet but faintly bitter, and the distant hum of insects filled the quiet spaces between my footsteps.
It was a short walk—five minutes at most—but time moved differently when my thoughts refused to rest. Each step felt heavy, weighed down by memories I hadn't asked for. The sky stretched endlessly above, cloudless and too bright, as though the world was holding its breath for something small but significant.
Lyra's house appeared soon—a simple dwelling with pale wooden walls and a slanted roof decorated with ribbons that shimmered in green and gold. The faint music of laughter floated through the air, soft and imperfect, like the echo of a forgotten melody.
There weren't many people, just as I expected. Lyra was there, radiant in her light-green dress, her brown hair catching the sunlight in small glimmers. Around her were her parents—her father, quiet and kind-eyed, and her mother, who was anything but quiet.
The moment she saw me approach, Lyra's mother gasped in exaggerated delight and clasped her hands dramatically. "My, my! If it isn't little Xavier!" she said, stepping forward with the gleam of mischief in her eyes. "Come to witness my daughter's grand day, have you? You know, it is said that if a boy is the first to see the birthday girl, fate will one day bind them together."
She demonstrated her words with an elaborate swirl of her hands, as if weaving invisible strings of destiny in the air.
I blinked. "I am quite certain fate has better things to do."
She laughed, pressing a hand to her chest in mock despair. "Oh, aren't you cruel? Most would simply smile and say, 'I see,' but you, dear boy, you stab the heart directly!"
"I apologize for the wound, madam," I said flatly, though a trace of amusement colored my tone.
Behind her, Lyra rolled her eyes. "Mother, please stop scaring him," she said, stepping between us with a half-laugh, half-sigh. "You're going to make him run away before the party even starts."
"Oh, nonsense," her mother replied. "He's much too polite to run. Look at him, standing there like the Prince of Zaheya himself."
I couldn't help but groan internally. Not that again.
Lyra turned to me, smiling knowingly. "What did my mother tell you this time?"
"The usual," I replied, brushing a hand through my stiff, gelled hair.
She stifled a laugh. "You look… neat," she said carefully, as though choosing her words with diplomatic precision.
"That's another way of saying I look ridiculous," I muttered.
She grinned. "A little," she admitted, "but it suits you."
I wasn't sure whether to feel flattered or insulted.
Lyra took my arm before I could respond. "Come, everyone's here already. Your sister's waiting over there."
The air was heavy with the scent of fruit tarts and candles, mingling with the faint earthy aroma of the nearby fields. Lyra's dress swayed as she led me through the small gathering—though "gathering" was generous. There were only four of us: Lyra, her parents, Lila, and myself.
"So," I said, glancing around, "you call this a party?"
Lyra shrugged, her tone light but honest. "I've never liked crowds. I only invited those I care about."
"That makes… sense," I said. "The fewer the people, the easier to breathe."
Her lips curved into a knowing smile. "Exactly. Besides, you and I are not the most social creatures, are we?"
I couldn't argue. "Fair enough."
For a moment, the atmosphere felt easy. Gentle laughter, the glimmer of sunlight through thin fabric curtains, the hum of life moving slowly. Yet beneath it all, my eyes found Lila in the corner—standing alone, her gaze distant, her shoulders drawn inward as if trying to make herself smaller.
When our eyes met, she looked away almost instantly.
A knot tightened in my chest.
"Do you miss Darin and Sera?" I asked suddenly, my voice quieter than I intended.
Lyra tilted her head. "That's a random question."
I shrugged. "Maybe. But… do you?"
She smiled softly, her gaze drifting upward as though seeing something far away. "Of course I do," she said. "We shared so much. I hope I see them again someday."
Her voice carried a note of wistfulness that lingered in the air. I envied that kind of hope—the kind that believed distance or time couldn't break bonds. I had once believed the same, in another life.
Before I could respond, Lyra tugged my sleeve gently. "Come. It's time you spoke to Lila."
I hesitated. "I don't think she wants to talk to me."
"She never wants to," Lyra said bluntly. "But she needs to."
We approached quietly. Lila noticed us and froze, as though caught in a spotlight. Her instinct was to retreat—her body shifted, her feet half-turning—but fate, or perhaps clumsiness, had other plans. Her foot caught on the edge of a mat, and she stumbled forward.
I moved without thinking, reaching out to steady her. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine," she said quickly, brushing her dress and standing before I could help her. She didn't take my offered hand. Her voice was soft but cold, the kind of tone built to protect a wounded heart.
"Lila," Lyra said, crossing her arms. "Your brother has something to say to you."
"I—" Lila began, but Lyra cut her off with a raised hand.
"No excuses," she said firmly. "Not today."
Lila sighed in resignation. "Fine," she muttered.
Lyra smiled, satisfied, and excused herself, running off toward her father. The moment she left, silence fell between Lila and me. The kind that hums in the bones, thick and uncomfortable.
I took a slow breath. "Lila," I began, "you know very well that you shouldn't blame yourself for what happened. It wasn't your fault that I was beaten."
Her eyes flickered, but she said nothing.
I pressed on. "You did nothing wrong. Not then, not after."
Her lips quivered. "No," she whispered, shaking her head. "It was my fault."
Her voice trembled—soft at first, then stronger, fueled by something buried deep. "If only I hadn't chased after that cat. You wouldn't have followed me. You wouldn't have been there when they—"
Her words broke. She looked down, and I saw the tears gathering in her lashes.
"It was my fault," she said again, louder now. "If I'd just stayed put, nothing like that would have happened. You wouldn't have—"
"Lila," I said quietly.
She bit her lip, her breath shaking.
I reached out, my voice gentler. "If you truly believe it was your fault… then I forgive you."
Her eyes widened, startled. "You… what?"
"I forgive you," I said, smiling faintly. "But you should forgive yourself too. No one else blames you. Only you do."
The silence that followed was heavy, but it wasn't empty. It was the kind of silence that comes after a wound finally begins to close.
She stared at me for a long time, and for the first time in months, she didn't look away. Something fragile cracked within her—a wall built of guilt and self-punishment—and the tears she had been holding back finally fell.
Without thinking, I stepped forward and drew her into an embrace. She stiffened at first, but then her hands clutched at my shirt, her small frame trembling against mine.
I could feel her heartbeat—fast, uneven, alive.
"Right now," she whispered through her tears, "I promise I'll get stronger. To protect you. To protect Mother and Father."
Her voice shook, but the words were full of conviction.
I closed my eyes. "You already have," I said softly. "You're stronger than you think."
The sunlight through the window shifted, falling across her hair like threads of gold. In that moment, time felt suspended—the laughter of Lyra and her father in the background, the hum of wind against the shutters, the faint scent of candle wax and sweets.
It was such an ordinary day, and yet… it wasn't.
Something had changed. Something small, fragile, and immeasurable.
Lila pulled back slightly, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. Her eyes, though red, shone with a light I hadn't seen in a long time.
"Thank you," she murmured.
I smiled. "That's what brothers are for."
She hesitated, then laughed quietly. It was a sound I hadn't realized I'd missed.
Lyra called from across the room, waving. "You two done with your drama?"
Lila rolled her eyes, but a faint smile played on her lips. "Yes," she said.
"Good," Lyra replied. "Then come. It's time to eat!"
As we walked toward the small table, the light shifted again—the warm gold of late afternoon melting into the orange hues of early evening.
For the first time in a long while, the air between Lila and me felt light.
I glanced at her, and she caught my eye. We shared a quiet smile, and though no words passed between us, the meaning was clear.
Forgiveness doesn't erase the past, but it softens its edges.
And in that small house, beneath the fading sunlight and laughter of a friend, I realized something simple yet profound:
Sometimes, healing doesn't arrive with thunder or tears. It comes gently, like the setting sun—slow, quiet, inevitable.