Chapter 84
"Thank you, Apathy.
Truly. I didn't expect you to care this much.
I know this is beyond your responsibility, and I truly appreciate it.
However, after thinking it over, the distance between Miara and me has become too great. I'm not sure there's still a way to fix it."
"Relax, Shaqar.
I have some free time today.
If you find it difficult to say it to Miara, I will accompany you.
Consider me a supporter or a shield so you don't feel alone there.
How about it, old captain? Now, let me be the one to go with you."
Shaqar glanced at Apathy with the gentlest yet most weary look, then lowered his head slowly, as if every small movement was a struggle to hold back his crumbling resolve.
He tried to say something—his voice low, hoarse, almost like a murmur tossed from some distant place deep within his chest.
He was grateful.
Grateful because Apathy had thought of him, because there was still someone who believed that a man of his age still deserved a chance to mend what had long been broken.
In every word he spoke, there was a subtle tremor that could not be hidden, a mixture of emotion intertwined with surrender.
Yet behind his words, Shaqar knew.
There was a chasm that could no longer be bridged, even if he built a staircase to the sky.
The chasm between him and Miara had become more than just distance.
It had turned into a wall of time, memories, and wounds too deep to touch.
He bowed his head further, his eyes fixed on the dim ground, and in the silence, a decision slowly formed.
Shaqar wanted to refuse.
He wanted to shake his head.
Not because he didn't want to try, but because he feared that hope would turn into a deeper wound.
He was afraid to see Miara again, afraid to look into his child's eyes, which might no longer recognize him.
In his mind, he imagined the house—the wooden door he had carved himself, the small yard where Miara used to run—and all of it now felt so distant, as if in another world he could not reach with his trembling steps.
So with bitterness almost unbearable, he drew a deep breath, ready to shake his head as the subtlest form of rejection he could give to a hope too beautiful to be real.
But before his head could move, Apathy's left hand rose slowly, its movement calm yet full of meaning.
The palm faced forward toward his chest, slightly away, resembling a symbol of rejecting the rejection itself.
He swung his arm three times, slow but firm, signaling Shaqar not to refuse just yet.
The gesture was simple, yet carried an undeniable weight.
Not a command, but an invitation.
And in an instant, the air between them seemed to change.
The tension that had been cold shifted into something warm, like a small spark signaling that hope still existed among the ruins of despair.
Then Apathy spoke, his voice flat yet carrying a strange, calming sincerity.
He said he didn't mind, whatever Shaqar's decision might be.
He was even willing to accompany him if Shaqar found it difficult to find the right words to speak with his only child.
Not as a prompter, nor as a witness, but as a friend willing to share the burden.
In the soft flickering lantern light, Shaqar could only stare at him for a long time—silent, because for the first time in so long, someone wasn't asking him to fight, but to come home.
'Somehow, every time I'm given a chance to fix something, I freeze like this.
As if my body refuses to move, even though my heart is screaming to.
If I refuse it again now, if I say "maybe another time," perhaps that means I truly no longer deserve to be called a father.
But if I accept it, if I go now—'
Suuuussh!
'I'm scared, Apathy.
My hands are trembling facing Miara.
My heart races uncontrollably as I look at her face, the one I have avoided all this time—because in that face, all the mistakes I have made are reflected.'
Fuuuuuh!
'Do I still have the right to stand in front of that door? To knock and say I'm sorry? Or is all of this just the wish of a coward afraid of being alone at the end of his life?'
Shaqar stood silent.
No sound.
No movement.
Only a vacant stare slowly falling toward the wet ground beneath his feet.
Between each heartbeat, time seemed to pause, waiting for a decision that wouldn't come.
The night air felt oppressive, freezing his entire body, already weary from the burdens of the past.
In the silence, his thoughts spun in every direction, crashing against the walls of regret that never healed.
On one side, a small impulse urged him to take this chance, no matter how small.
But on the other, there was an overwhelming fear, like cold hands from the past pulling him back into darkness.
He knew that if he chose to retreat again, he would forever be trapped in the cycle of despair he created himself.
His breath came out heavy, long, hoarse—a sound from a chest nearly empty.
He remembered Miara's face, those eyes that once looked at him with pride, now only reflecting hatred.
He remembered words never spoken, apologies always caught at the tip of his tongue.
Within him, a small war raged once more.
'Between the desire to atone and the fear of failing again.'
He asked himself, is it still worth trying?
Does a father who has been absent at the most needed moments still deserve to be called a father?
His mind refused to answer, for any answer would only add to the pain.
So he stood there, stiff, like a statue crafted from the unwillingness to step forward.
Apathy still stood before him, calm, like a shadow waiting but not forcing.
The man's gaze was like a mirror, showing Shaqar how tired he was of always choosing to postpone.
And from there, shame began to grow slowly, pressing against his chest harder than fear.
He began to realize that cowards are not those who lose, but those who keep waiting without ever doing anything.
Every breath he exhaled felt like a confession—that perhaps, all this time, the one he fought against was not the world, not Miara, but himself, always finding reasons not to try.
'I can even imagine it now, how chaotic my voice will be in front of her.
Every word might break, every breath feel like a thorn.
Miara will surely look at me with the same gaze as before—cold, distant—as if I am not her father, but a stranger who happens to have a similar face.
And if I stumble, if I cannot say anything, perhaps I will immediately kneel before her.
Maybe that is the only thing I can still do without fault.
But what's the use of all that if my own voice cannot express what's in my heart?'
Raaaasshhh!
'Apathy didn't come just to watch.
He came to help.
To strengthen what I can no longer say with my own tongue.'
"Haaaah—"
"So, how about it, captain?"
"Alright, Apathy. I accept your offer. But with one condition.
You must be my voice later, when I face Miara directly.
If I lose my words, or if my voice gets stuck in my throat, I want you to deliver them for me."
In that pressing silence, shadows of the past crept once more between Shaqar's awareness.
He imagined how it would be—how clumsy his old tongue would be facing Miara, how stiff his hands when trying to reach his daughter's shoulder, which she might push away without hesitation.
To be continued…