Aryan jolted awake.
Sweat glistened on his skin. The room was silent again — only the rain outside and the faint crack of thunder.
He pressed his trembling hand against his chest.
No glow.
Only emptiness.
He closed his eyes and whispered,
> "The Thirteenth War… it never really ended, did it?"
Outside, the storm rumbled as if answering him.
The car pulled up quietly near the café — sleek, black, and shining like polished glass.
Nirav's eyes narrowed.
He leaned toward Ronav and whispered, "Mrs. Yanaki… she's here."
A woman stepped out of the car with calm elegance. Her presence turned heads instantly — long dark coat, silver pendant glinting under the morning light, eyes that carried decades of wisdom and something unspoken.
She looked to be in her early forties, though her aura made her seem timeless.
She approached the table with a faint smile.
> "You came, Nirav," she said softly. "Your training must be complete by now, I suppose?"
Nirav rose from his chair, a teasing grin flashing across his face.
> "Yes, Mrs. Yanaki. And you— you still look too young for anyone to believe you have a grandson in his thirties."
She chuckled, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
> "My grandson…" she murmured, her tone deepening with nostalgia. "I came here to see him — your master, Aryan."
The narrow corridor of the old apartment block echoed faintly with the click of Yanaki's heels.
Outside the door marked 303, Ronav and Nirav stood silently. The air felt heavy — like even the walls remembered better days.
Yanaki pressed the doorbell.
A muffled sound came from inside — the shuffle of bottles, then slow footsteps.
The door creaked open halfway. Aryan stood there — eyes half-open, his hair unkempt, the bitter scent of alcohol drifting from the room. He looked at Yanaki for a moment, as if struggling to recognize her.
Without a word, she stepped inside. The door shut quietly behind her, leaving Ronav and Nirav waiting in the dim corridor.
---
Inside, silence reigned.
Yanaki's eyes swept over the room — and her heart sank.
Everything was covered in a film of dust. The wallpaper had dulled and cracked, and the ceiling leaked faintly near the bathroom, where water dripped rhythmically. Empty bottles lay scattered across the floor.
The bedsheet was damp near the pillow — soaked not by water, but by tears.
Aryan slumped back onto the bed, muttering something inaudible. Yanaki took a slow breath and looked around again — searching for the man he once was.
Then she saw it.
A small shelf near the computer desk — the only thing in the flat that was spotless. His medals, trophies, and fragments of old war relics gleamed under the thin beam of sunlight piercing through the curtains. The glass on the shelf sparkled like it had just been polished.
Beside the bed, two framed photographs sat on the drawer. They, too, were clean — untouched by dust or time.
In the first, a younger Aryan stood between his smiling parents, both proud, both alive. His graduation robes still shimmered faintly in the photo light.
The second photo showed a girl — beautiful, radiant, and alive with youth.
She wore:
An oversized purple bomber jacket, ribbed collar and cuffs slightly crumpled.
A white graphic T-shirt tucked neatly into pale denim jeans, the print faintly reading CALIFORNIA – SINCE 1928.
Her jeans cinched high at the waist, a tiny heart charm glinting near the beltline.
Her smile was sunlight — the kind that could make a man believe in hope again.
Yanaki's eyes softened.
She brushed the dust off the photo frame with trembling fingers and whispered,
> "You still keep her close, don't you… even after all these years."
The only answer was the faint drip of water — and the quiet, shattered breathing of a hero who once carried the light of worlds.
Yanaki stood quietly for a moment, watching Aryan. His face was pale, his hair unkempt — like someone who had just awoken from a nightmare that never truly ended. His body seemed frail, weighed down not by age, but by grief.
She took a slow step forward, her voice trembling yet filled with warmth.
> "My son… Aryan—"
"Stop, Grandma," Aryan interrupted, his voice hoarse and tired. His eyes, dull and glassy, lifted to meet hers.
> "I'm not coming home."
Yanaki froze mid-sentence. She tried to steady her breath and forced a gentle smile.
> "My son, look at this place…" she said softly, her gaze sweeping across the dusty walls and scattered bottles. "You're supposed to live at our mansion. Fifteen years have passed, Aryan. The house still waits for you. Your grandpa, your uncle and aunt… your siblings—everyone is desperate to see you again."
Aryan let out a dry, bitter laugh that broke midway into a sob.
> "The palace reminds me of everything, Grandma—everything I lost. My parents, my people, my promise."
He wiped his eyes with the back of his trembling hand, then looked at her again, his voice cracking.
> "How am I supposed to live there and pretend nothing happened? Look at me, Grandma… look at what I've become."
"It's better this way. Better for me to live alone. My presence—my failures—will only bring sorrow to that house."
For a long moment, Yanaki said nothing. Her strong, noble face softened, her lips quivering as tears welled in her eyes. She turned slightly, unable to look at him.
The air between them fell silent—thick with pain, memory, and unspoken love.
Only the quiet ticking of a broken clock filled the room, counting every second of their distance
A few minutes later, the door of flat no. 303 opened.
Yanaki stepped out slowly, her eyes red, her expression heavy with disappointment.
Nirav rose from his seat immediately.
> "What happened, Mrs. Yanaki?" he asked quietly.
She shook her head.
> "As always… he refused to come," she murmured.
Ronav clenched his fists, frustration flickering across his face.
> "Then I'll go talk to him. Maybe this time—"
Yanaki turned sharply toward him, her voice firm but tired.
> "You've tried a hundred times, Ronav. He won't listen. He doesn't want anyone's help."
She took a breath, steadying herself.
> "I even insisted he let me appoint a maid, someone to keep the place clean. But he said no—he insists on living alone."
Ronav exhaled slowly.
> "The doctor said his condition was improving. The medicine, the counseling…"
Yanaki nodded faintly.
> "Yes, his body is healing. But his mind… his trauma runs deeper. It's not just his parents' death, or her loss, or the war's scars."
Her voice trailed off. The corridor fell silent.
Nirav frowned.
> "Then what hurts him the most, Mrs. Yanaki?"
Yanaki hesitated, then spoke softly—almost to herself. I saw
> "His watch."