The silence after dinner felt heavier than usual.
The television was on, its light flickering across the walls, but no one was really watching it. My mother sat on the sofa, folding clothes slowly, each movement careful, almost deliberate, as if she were buying time. My father leaned back in his chair, his hands resting on the armrests, his eyes fixed somewhere far beyond the walls of the house.
Not at the screen.
Not at us.
At something only he could see.
I noticed it then.
That look.
He only wore it on certain nights—nights when the past seemed closer than it should have been, when it followed him into the room and refused to stay silent.
"Dad," I said quietly, breaking the stillness, "you were saying something earlier."
He didn't respond.
For a moment, I thought he hadn't heard me at all. Then, without turning his head, he spoke.
"Some stories," he said, his voice low, "don't end where people think they do."
My mother paused mid-fold. Just for a second. Then she stood up, gathered the clothes in her arms, and walked into the kitchen without a word.
That was when I understood.
This wasn't going to be a normal conversation.
My father stood and gestured toward the veranda.
"Come," he said. "Let's talk outside."
The night air greeted us with a strange unease. It was cool, but not comforting. A faint wind passed through the trees, carrying the smell of dust—and something older, something burned long ago. We sat across from each other, separated by a small table and a much larger distance made of unspoken words.
For a long moment, my father said nothing.
Then he exhaled slowly.
"There was a time," he began, "when the village wasn't safe."
I frowned. "You've mentioned that before."
He nodded. "Yes. But I never explained why."
I waited.
"There were outsiders," he continued. "Groups of men who didn't come to live. They came to take. They didn't fear the police. They didn't fear the law."
He lowered his gaze to his hands, as if they still remembered something his mind wished to forget.
"They only feared strength."
Something about the way he said it made my stomach tighten.
"I didn't begin by fighting," my father said. "I began by watching."
He told me how discipline became routine, how training stopped being a choice and became a necessity. How it was never about winning—but about ending things before they grew uncontrollable.
"I learned where to stand," he said. "When to move. When not to."
"And when to strike?" I asked.
He looked at me then, really looked at me.
"For some people," he said, "the strike happens long before the hand moves."
I didn't fully understand the words.
But I felt their weight settle somewhere deep in my chest.
"The first time I hurt someone," my father continued, "I didn't feel proud."
He stopped speaking.
The pause stretched.
"I felt relieved."
The word caught me off guard.
"Relieved?" I repeated.
"Yes," he said quietly. "Because I understood something important that day."
He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees.
"Fear works faster than justice."
My jaw tightened. "That doesn't make it right."
"I never said it did," he replied calmly.
Silence settled between us again, heavier than before.
"People started coming to me," he said. "Not for trouble. For protection."
He spoke of disputes that ended before they began. Of nights that stayed quiet—not because peace existed, but because no one dared disturb it.
"They called it order," my father said. "Others called it fear."
"What did you call it?" I asked.
He didn't answer.
Instead, he said something else.
"There are moments," he said slowly, "when a man crosses a line without realizing it."
A chill ran down my spine.
"What line?" I asked.
He stood up.
"The kind you can't return from."
I stood as well, frustration rising in my chest.
"So what?" I said. "You just became that person? You chose that life?"
My father turned toward me, his expression unreadable.
"You think I chose it?" he asked quietly.
"Yes," I replied. "You always had a choice."
For the first time that night, his voice hardened.
"No," he said. "I had responsibility."
I shook my head. "That's just an excuse."
The words hung between us, sharp and unforgiving.
My mother called my name from inside the house.
I ignored it.
"If I had been there," I said, my voice trembling despite myself, "I would have stopped you. I wouldn't have let it go that far."
My father stared at me for a long moment.
Then he said the sentence that broke something inside me.
"At that time… no one could stop it."
He walked past me and went inside the house.
He didn't say goodnight.
Sleep refused to come.
Every time I closed my eyes, his words returned.
No one could stop it.
What kind of situation makes a man believe that?
I got out of bed and walked quietly through the house. My parents' room was dark. At the end of the hallway stood an old cupboard my father rarely opened.
I didn't know why my hand reached for it.
Inside, beneath neatly folded clothes, lay an old martial arts belt—worn, frayed, heavy with years of use.
I picked it up.
The moment my fingers touched the fabric, pressure built in my chest. My heartbeat quickened—not with fear, but with something far heavier.
Regret.
"What if I really had been there?" I whispered.
The room seemed to shrink around me. The air grew thick, difficult to breathe. My vision blurred.
"I just want to understand," I said aloud.
The pressure intensified.
The floor tilted.
Darkness swallowed me whole.
I woke up gasping.
The air felt wrong—dry, thick, unfamiliar.
I coughed and pushed myself up, my hands pressing into something rough.
Dirt.
I froze.
Slowly, I looked around.
The houses were old. The street was empty. No lights. No vehicles. No familiar sounds.
Just silence.
Somewhere far away, a dog barked.
My phone was gone.
My watch was gone.
Even the air felt different—heavier, untouched.
I stood up, my heart pounding.
"Where am I?" I whispered.
There was no answer.
I didn't know the year.
I didn't know the place.
I didn't know when I was.
All I knew was this—
I wasn't home anymore.