"You know, young man," Roland began, his tone gentle but firm, "I don't know your story. And I don't pretend to understand the weight you carry. But I can imagine what it must take to fuel a desire like yours. For revenge… well, that isn't something a person takes lightly."
Roland took another drag from his cigar, watching Amukelo's reaction carefully. "Look, I won't sugarcoat it," he continued, his voice firm. "You've made a mistake. And that mistake has cost you—cost you more than anyone should ever have to bear. But here's something I've learned in my own life: everyone makes mistakes, even the ones that seem unforgivable."
He paused, the lines of his face softening as he looked at Amukelo. "Mistakes… they're what shape us. They're painful, they cut deep, but they also teach us things we might never have known otherwise. They carve out parts of us we never knew existed. And yes, maybe in a perfect world, you'd have found a way to forgive him—to leave that judgment to God and let him handle what lies beyond our reach."
Amukelo's gaze flickered, his brow furrowing. He hadn't expected this from Roland—a lecture about God, about forgiveness. He had come back simply to gather his belongings, not to sit through a sermon about faith.
Roland noticed the subtle shift in Amukelo's expression. But he pressed on, undeterred.
"But no," he continued, his tone steady, "I don't think your biggest mistake was seeking revenge. It might sound strange, but I believe that vengeance is something most of us carry within us, in one form or another. We all have that instinct, that part of us that wants to balance the scales, to make things right in our own way." He paused, exhaling a thin line of smoke as he gathered his thoughts. "No, I think your biggest mistake was that you were relying too much on yourself."
"You relied on your own strength, your own thoughts, to guide you through this darkness," Roland continued. "And I'm not just talking about other people, though I'm sure there were those willing to walk beside you, to help you carry that burden. No, what I mean is that you relied too much on yourself, and not enough on God."
Amukelo's expression tightened, his irritation only deepened, as he clenched his jaw. The notion of turning to God felt hollow, almost mocking in the face of all he had lost. Where had God been when Pao had sacrificed herself? Where had God been when he had been consumed by hatred, by pain?
Roland could see the anger in Amukelo's eyes, but he didn't back down.
"Listen, I know this may not be what you want to hear," he said. "But I've seen what happens to men who try to bear everything alone, who close themselves off to anything outside of their own will. It twists them, hardens them, until there's nothing left but bitterness. If you'd been willing to listen—to submit your heart to something greater than yourself, to a purpose beyond your own thoughts—you might have found a way forward without all this pain."
Roland let the silence hang between them for a moment, sensing the tension, but he didn't press further. Instead, he shifted, his gaze softening as he looked out over the garden with contemplative expression.
"But it's not too late," he said quietly, as if speaking more to himself than to Amukelo. "It's never too late to find a new path. To allow yourself to be saved, even when you think all hope is lost. God can still save you, Amukelo, if you're willing to let him. He can guide you back to something meaningful, something real."
Amukelo felt a faint stirring of annoyance. He hadn't come here to be saved, nor had he come seeking some divine intervention. He had simply wanted to gather what little he had left and leave, to slip back into the shadows where the memories couldn't reach him.
But Roland continued. "And even if you don't have faith in him, even if you can't open yourself to him directly, then at least open yourself to the people around you. Let others in, even if it feels foreign, or painful, or impossible."
Amukelo glanced away, Roland's words felt like salt in a wound, as though they were meant for someone else entirely.
Roland turned back to him. "You see, I don't believe that any of us walk this path alone," he said softly. "Even in our darkest moments, there's a hand guiding us, a force that brings people into our lives for reasons we might never understand. I believe that God directed you to save my daughter, that he brought you here for a reason."
Amukelo's expression softened, confusion flickering in his eyes. He hadn't seen himself as anyone's savior; he'd barely held onto his own sense of purpose, let alone thought he might have been led here by some unseen hand.
Roland studied his face, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "And I believe," he continued, "that he'll send someone along your path to save you as well. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow. But someone will come, someone who will help you find your way back to the light."
He paused, his eyes glinting with something akin to hope. "And my daughter, she… she wants to join you on that journey."
Amukelo was surprised. He remembered that in the past Eliss asked him about the same thing, but he thought that after what he did, she would change her mind. His voice, rough from the hours spent in the cold and the earlier tears, broke the silence. "Why would she want that?" he asked, his tone edged with disbelief. "Hasn't she seen how mad I am? Doesn't she know the depths I'm willing to go?"
Roland nodded, a trace of understanding in his gaze. "Yes, Amukelo, she's seen it. But I think that's exactly why she wants to join you."
Amukelo's brow furrowed, confusion clouding his gaze as he tried to make sense of Roland's words. Why would anyone willingly walk beside him, knowing the depths of his rage, the lengths to which he had gone in his pursuit of vengeance? It made no sense.
"She told me something," Roland said, his voice softening. "She told me that she believes you can perform miracles."
Amukelo blinked. Miracles? The very idea felt absurd, almost laughable. He was no miracle-worker; he was a man who had been broken by his own rage, a man who had lost everything.
Roland must have seen the doubt in his eyes, because he gave a soft, knowing smile. "I don't know what she meant by that, and I can't pretend to understand her reasons entirely. But I think she sees something in you, something beyond the anger, beyond the pain."
Roland took another drag from his cigar, exhaling slowly. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees.
"Amukelo," Roland began, his voice steady but gentle, "you know, there's another thing you should understand. Even if you rely on others, no matter how many people you surround yourself with, there will still be hardships, still storms that come your way. That's just the way life is. And when those storms hit… they don't just affect you. They ripple outward, touching the people around you, whether they're standing by your side or waiting for you protect them. And in those moments, when the storm is raging and even the ones closest to you are feeling its force, sometimes the only thing that can save you is faith. Or, if you prefer…" he paused, a faint smile tugging at his lips, "resilience. Belief in the fact that it will get better, even when all you see around you is darkness."
Amukelo remained silent, his eyes lowered, absorbing Roland's words. Faith had always felt like an abstract idea to him, something distant, something that belonged to other people. But Roland was speaking of it in a way that seemed strangely grounded, as if it weren't some unreachable concept, but rather a choice, a commitment to face whatever came his way with the trust that he would somehow endure.
"That's when faith in God can help you the most," Roland continued. "When you're at the edge of your strength, that's when faith can be the rope that pulls you back. I'm not asking you to submit to him all at once," he said sensing Amukelo's resistance. "I know it's not something that can happen in a moment, especially not for someone who has been through what you have. But all I'm asking is that you consider the possibility that you don't have to bear everything alone."
Amukelo clenched his fists, his shoulders tense as Roland's words sank in. He had spent so long believing that the only way to survive was to rely on his own strength. And yet… that very strength had brought him to this hollow place.
Roland seemed to sense his struggle, his hesitation. He let the silence stretch between them, giving Amukelo the space to grapple with his thoughts before continuing.
"Sometimes," Roland said softly, "the hardest thing to accept is that we can't control everything. That there are forces—events, losses, pains—that are beyond our control, no matter how strong we are, no matter how much we fight." He glanced up at the sky, watching as the morning light softened the shadows around them. "But just as storms come, they also pass. And after every storm, there's a rainbow. So, if you can just wait, if you can hold on through the darkest times, you'll find that there are better days to come."
Roland turned back to Amukelo, his face softening into a warm, quiet smile. "It's not easy, I know. But if you give yourself time, if you open yourself to that possibility… you might just find the reason to live you've been searching for."
Roland took another slow drag from his cigar, savoring the warmth before standing up as he prepared to leave. "I won't keep you any longer, Amukelo," he said. "I don't expect you to change overnight, and I know that trust isn't something that can be forced. But all I'm asking is that you think about what I've said. About what it means to rely on something beyond yourself. And about the travel with my daughter."
Amukelo nodded slowly. He hadn't asked for Roland's words, hadn't expected any of this, but the wisdom in them echoed in his mind.
Roland turned to leave. But after a few steps, he paused, glancing back over his shoulder. "Oh, and by the way," he added, with a smile, "you don't need to climb back through the window. The main doors are be open."
Amukelo sat there as he watched Roland walking away. The idea of letting go, of allowing himself to rely on something other than his own strength, felt impossible. And yet, there was a quiet truth in Roland's words, a wisdom that resonated with a part of him.
As Roland reached the edge of the garden, Amukelo felt an impulse rise within him. He cleared his throat, his voice rough and hesitant as he called out, "I will go…"
Roland stopped in his tracks, turning slowly, a hint of surprise in his expression. "What?"
Amukelo met his gaze, his face still shadowed with uncertainty, but his voice steadier this time. "I will… I'll do as you say. I'll go on this journey, and I'll open myself, at least… I'll try to."
A glimmer of relief crossed Roland's facel. But before he could respond, Amukelo continued. "But are you sure… are you sure it's the best choice to let your daughter travel with me?"
Roland let out a deep breath, his expression thoughtful, as though he had asked himself that very question. He took a few steps closer, looking at Amukelo with a steady, understanding gaze.
"Honestly, Amukelo," he said, his tone soft but sincere, "I don't. I can't say for certain that this is the best choice, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't afraid for her. But…" he paused, "from what I've seen, the choices we've made for her, they seem to have only hurt her, left her feeling caged, without possibility. I don't fully understand what she sees in you, or why she feels drawn to this path, but I think it's time I trust her judgment."
As Roland turned to leave once more, he offered Amukelo a final, reassuring nod. "Just remember what I said. The storms will come, and you might find yourself feeling lost. But if you hold on, if you trust, if you open yourself to others, you'll find that there are still rainbows after the storm."
And with that, he walked away, leaving Amukelo alone with his thoughts.