The house smelled faintly of old wood and the lingering scent of last night's stew. Outside, the sky hung heavy and unmoving, a dull slate of grey that refused to give way to sunlight. It had been like this for days, a slow, oppressive gloom sinking over the village like a second skin. Daigo moved quietly, stacking documents into a battered suitcase that had seen better days
"You better bring her with you," his mother's voice floated from the doorway, soft but firm. Daigo looked up. His mother, always wrapped in that faint scent of dried herbs and fresh earth, stood there with her hands lightly folded over her apron. Her hair was greying at the temples, her back slightly bent, but her eyes — those remained sharp, full of a kindness that had never once wavered.
She had always been his biggest supporter, whether he was a clumsy child tripping over roots in the field or a man trying to shoulder more burdens than he had strength for. And now, even with the deep lines of age carving her face, she was still thinking of his future first, not her own loneliness, not her aching knees, but him.
"You hear me, Daigo?" she said again, a small smile on her lips. "You have to bring her back. It'll be just like the first time you brought her to us. We'll celebrate again — like old times."
Daigo closed the suitcase with a soft click, the sound far louder in the quiet room than he expected. His hands lingered on the handle. He understood well enough what she was asking. It wasn't just for tradition. His parents, growing frail with each passing season, wanted to see Relyn — the woman who once laughed under this very roof — walk through the door again. They wanted to stitch back the broken pieces, even if only for a little while.
But it wouldn't be easy.
He sighed and glanced out the window where Selia, his daughter, was playing in the dirt with a stick, her carefree laughter like a fading song. Just like always, running through the fields and wading into the river barefoot, her city manners forgotten as soon as her feet touched the village soil. It had been this way ever since Relyn left — Daigo staying here, rooted like the stubborn oaks in the hills, while Relyn took their daughter to the city for a better education, a better life.
He tightened his grip on the suitcase. Convincing Relyn to come back — even for a few days — would be a mountain to climb. He could already hear the stubborn tilt in her voice, see the way she would cross her arms, her sharp gaze daring him to try. She had always been fierce when it came to their daughter, and fiercer still when it came to the life she thought Selia deserved.
But still, he would try. Because when your mother, who had given everything and asked for nothing, looked at you with that quiet hope, you didn't say no.
"Alright," Daigo said, his voice steady, even if a weight settled deeper in his chest. "I'll bring her."
His mother's smile widened, and for a moment, the years seemed to fall away from her face.
"And Daigo," she added, before he turned to leave, "don't just bring her back. Bring her heart back too."
He nodded once, not trusting his voice. Outside, the old truck waited in a cloud of dust, the road stretching long and uncertain before him, toward the city, toward Relyn, toward whatever future he could still carve out from broken promises and long-held dreams.
Daigo took a deep breath, tipped his hat low against the sun, and stepped onto the road.
Just as Daigo slung the suitcase into the back of the old truck, a loud, hurried clatter of boots echoed down the dusty path. Talen Moruin came running, half-stumbling with a battered suitcase in one hand, his coat flapping wildly behind him like a stubborn flag refusing to surrender to the stormy air. His dark brown hair was messy from the wind, and his brown eyes gleamed with the sharpness of someone trying not to miss a ride—or perhaps trying not to miss a chance.
"I'm on time!" he declared, stopping with a huff beside the truck, his breath misting faintly in the cool air.
Daigo gave him a sideways glance, raising an eyebrow. Talen was a man of the same age, maybe a year younger if one counted closely. He, too, had grown up among the fields and narrow lanes of Ossyra village, though life had taken him away earlier than Daigo — the death of his parents sealing his path to Vehlira, the distant city where hopes were bright and the nights were never truly dark.
For years, Talen hadn't come back. But a week ago, without much warning, he returned, staying with his nephew in a house that creaked like old bones at the edge of the village. And now, finally, it seemed, he was leaving again—though this time, not alone.
"Make sure that Daigo reaches safely," Daigo's father said gruffly, standing near the porch with arms crossed, his heavy brow furrowed not just in concern but something deeper — the sorrow of a man who could no longer walk beside his son like he once had.
Daigo scowled, dragging his cap lower over his forehead. "I'm not a kid, you know."
Talen grinned, unbothered."Don't worry, Uncle," he said, giving a lazy salute with two fingers. "He's under my protection now."
Daigo muttered something under his breath about needing protection like he needed a hole in the head, but didn't argue. He could feel the weight of the moment pressing on them all, as if even the skies above were listening.
Dark clouds clotted the heavens, thick and unmoving, like some heavy lid lowering itself over the world. The sun was a mere rumor—memory hidden behind walls of ash-colored mist. The air smelled faintly of rain that hadn't yet fallen, of earth waiting for the first cold touch.
"Look at this weather," Daigo's mother said, voice low with unease, her hand resting on Selia's shoulder. The little girl — Selia, his light, his breath — clung quietly to her grandmother's side, her wide eyes reflecting the bruised sky above."It's like... about to bring a misfortune."
Talen laughed, trying to break the tension. "Ah, Auntie, don't worry! If bad luck tries anything, I'll punch it square in the jaw."
Daigo chuckled dryly and climbed up onto the back of the truck, settling his suitcase beside him. He rapped his knuckles against the metal once, a small, solid sound.
"I'll call when I arrive," he said, looking down at his mother and daughter, etching their faces into his memory, knowing it might be some time before he saw them again.
"Promise?" Selia piped up, her voice thin against the growing wind.
"I promise," Daigo said, his heart squeezing painfully tight.
The engine coughed and groaned as it came to life, spitting smoke into the churning sky. Talen threw his suitcase into the back and clambered in after him, giving Daigo a small, determined nod.
As the truck rolled forward, bumping over the worn dirt road, Daigo sat still, staring out at the endless sea of dark clouds swallowing the horizon.
Somewhere beyond them lay the city.
Somewhere beyond them waited Relyn.
And somewhere ahead, whether he was ready or not, waited a future he could no longer outrun.
The village grew smaller behind them — a cluster of memories tucked under a sky too heavy to cry.