The house was alive with quiet energy, the comforting scents of fried catfish and cornbread filling the air as the last of the meal simmered in the kitchen. Black's mother moved around the room with a quiet purpose, adjusting pots and checking the stove, her movements quick but measured. Her eyes never strayed too far from her son, as though she might lose him again if she let him out of her sight.
His father, usually a man of few words, sat at the kitchen table, a deck of cards spread in front of him. He shuffled the cards slowly, the motion a familiar, grounding rhythm. Every now and then, he glanced up at Black, his gaze lingering for a moment, as if to make sure he was still really there.
Black, for his part, settled into the rhythm of the house, allowing the warmth of it to wash over him. The heavy, joyful silence was punctuated only by the soft clinking of the cards and the occasional shuffle of chairs as his mother moved about. Despite the life of the home, there was an underlying tension in the way his parents stayed close, as if afraid he might disappear again if they weren't near him.
There was a knock at the door, followed by the sound of familiar laughter. Black's mother called from the kitchen, "Come on in! You're just in time!"
Mrs. Aisha and Tanya stepped into the room, both smiling warmly. Mrs. Aisha, with her steady calm, was the first to cross the threshold, her eyes lighting up as she spotted Black. Without hesitation, she wrapped him in a tight, heartfelt hug. "We never stopped praying for this," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "Never stopped believing you'd come home."
Tanya followed behind, her infectious energy filling the space. She laughed lightly and pulled Black into an embrace, her voice teasing. "Well, look at you," she said, her smile wide. "Back from the dead and in one piece! You sure know how to keep a lady waiting."
The room brightened as the two women joined the family at the table. Mrs. Aisha began helping his mother with the final preparations, and Tanya slid into a seat next to Black's father, effortlessly taking part in the easy chatter of the moment. There was no rush to eat. It wasn't just about the meal; it was about the gathering, the miracle of having everyone together again.
Black's mother finished setting the last dish on the table, a big bowl of mashed potatoes, and wiped her hands on her apron, smiling warmly at the group. "There's always room for one more at my table," she said, repeating the mantra she had lived by for years. "And today, there's room for all of you."
As they sat down to eat, Black's father cleared his throat, raising his glass of sweet tea. The room fell silent as everyone turned their attention to him. "To God's grace," he said, his voice full of reverence. "For bringing our son back to us, for giving us the strength to endure, and for watching over us when we thought we'd lost him forever."
Tanya raised her glass with a smile. "To family," she added, her voice light, but sincere. "And to the people who never gave up."
Black found himself overcome with emotion, the weight of his parents' love and sacrifice almost too much to bear. He raised his glass, his voice thick. "To those who never stopped believing. To home."
Everyone echoed the sentiment, the air heavy with gratitude. Black's mother led a quiet prayer of thanks, her voice steady and filled with warmth, thanking God for the food, for the family gathered around the table, and most of all, for the return of her son.
The meal settled into a comfortable rhythm, each person savoring the food while conversation naturally flowed between bites. Tanya, with her usual quick wit, started up a playful conversation with Black's father about the infamous "family game night" from years ago.
"I swear, Michael," she laughed, her voice teasing, "your father cheats at cards. Every. Single. Time."
Black's father shot Tanya an amused glance. "I don't cheat, Tanya. I'm just better at the game than you." He smiled, clearly enjoying the lighthearted exchange.
Aisha raised an eyebrow. "Is that so? I'm pretty sure I remember you slipping cards under the table, David."
He feigned innocence. "That was... a long time ago," he grinned. "I've learned my lesson. Now I just play fair."
The room erupted into laughter, and for a moment, it felt like time had folded back on itself. There were no questions about the lost years—no heavy silence filled with unspoken pain. Tonight was just about being together, and in that space, Black allowed himself to let go of some of the heaviness that had followed him since he arrived.
As the conversation shifted, Aisha turned to Black. "So, how does it feel?" she asked gently, her smile full of understanding. "Coming back after all this time?"
Black paused, his fork halfway to his mouth, as Aisha's question hung in the air. The simplicity of it caught him off guard. He had never been away in the way his parents had—he'd been living a day-to-day existence in his own mind, frozen in the cycle of battle and duty. It was they who had missed him. They had carried on, adjusted, and reshaped their lives around the hole his absence left behind.
"It's... a lot," he said finally, his voice quieter than before. He glanced at his mother and father, seeing their expectation, their love, and the weight of everything they had endured. "I guess... I didn't expect to come back to so many changes." His gaze flickered around the kitchen, noticing the way the walls had been redecorated, the small details that felt slightly different—new plants in the windowsill, photographs of cousins and friends he didn't recognize. "It feels the same... but not really," he murmured. "You've all kept going without me. That's something I never had to think about."
Tanya, ever perceptive, glanced at Black, sensing the unspoken tension. She changed the subject lightly, giving him an opening to shift his focus. "So, you're home now," she said with a playful grin. "You planning to stick around and eat all of your mom's cooking for the next ten years, or what?"
Black chuckled, the sound rough but real. "I might just take you up on that," he replied, his smile feeling a little more genuine now. "But I'll need to earn it first."
Aisha leaned in, her voice warm but teasing. "Earn it, huh? What does a martyr need to earn anything for?" She flashed him a mischievous grin, nudging his arm. "All of Solari Delta will want to see their hero, not some soldier begging for a second helping."
The words hung in the air for a moment, lightening the mood, and a small smile tugged at the corners of Black's mouth. For a brief second, he felt like the man who had left this home—not the one burdened by all that had passed since. "I'll take that hero status if it means I get a second helping," he replied, his voice warmer than before.
Black's father leaned back in his chair with a grin, watching the playful exchange unfold. "I don't know," he said with a chuckle. "I think Michael's earned himself a second helping." His smile softened as he met Black's eyes.
The meal had settled into a comfortable rhythm, and Black was now on his second helping of everything. His mother, looking at him with a quiet mix of pride and affection, filled his plate once more, but this time her gaze lingered just a little longer.
Tanya leaned back in her chair, glancing over at Black. "You're really making up for lost time, aren't you?" she teased, but there was a note of warmth in her voice, not mockery.
Black chuckled lightly, but his attention was momentarily elsewhere. His eyes drifted around the table, resting on the empty chair next to his mother. That was where Amara should've been. The thought had been hanging at the back of his mind all night, but now it was impossible to ignore.
He set his fork down slowly, his appetite suddenly muted. "Mom," he began, his voice quieter than before, "where's Amara? I thought she'd be here tonight."
His mother's smile faltered slightly, and she glanced down at her plate before meeting his eyes. For a long moment, the room seemed to hold its breath. The lighthearted energy that had filled the air just moments before felt more fragile now.
"She's… not here, no," his mother said carefully, her voice steady but carrying a weight of its own. "She met someone a few years after you... went missing." She hesitated, as if choosing her words. "She has a family now. Two kids, beautiful little ones."
Black stayed silent, letting the weight of her words settle between them. It wasn't a surprise—he had known, somewhere deep down, that life had gone on without him. Amara had moved on. But hearing it out loud—he felt it in his chest, a sharp tug of something he couldn't name.
"She's happy now," his mother continued, her gaze turning distant. "I think she tried to move forward, but… I'm not sure she ever really got over you. It's not something she talks about much, but there's something in her eyes when she speaks of you. Like she never quite let go."
"Did she ever…" His voice trailed off, and he closed his eyes briefly, the question too difficult to ask out loud. He didn't need to. His mother had already said it all. Amara had moved on. And now, so would he."
His dad must have noticed the twinge of regret in his eyes because he leaned over, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry, son. Plenty of fine women around here who'd love to date a Ranger."
A few hours later, the meal had been cleared, the dishes washed, and the energy in the house had shifted. The hum of contentment lingered in the air, but now the evening had taken a different turn. Laughter and music filled the space—Tanya was singing an old gospel hymn, her voice light and full of life, carrying through the house like a wave. Black's father was lounging in his favorite armchair, trying to engage Bastion in a game of chess. The older man's brow furrowed in growing frustration as he tried to explain to Bastion, who had been stoically observing the game, that just because you make the right move every time doesn't mean you're going to win.
"No, no, you're not getting it, Bastion!" His father's voice was exasperated but amused. "It's about more than just strategy. Chess isn't just about making the right moves—it's about the wrong moves too. The sneaky ones. You need to get inside your opponent's head, make them think you're making mistakes when you're actually setting them up for something bigger. It's not about playing by the rules—it's about manipulating the rules."
Bastion, as usual, was unfazed by the frustration. "I believe I understand the concept of a 'trap,' David. It is merely a matter of patience."
David sighed, clearly not convinced. "Patience is one thing. But if you never break the rules, you're not gonna win the game."
Meanwhile, Black leaned back in his chair, taking it all in, the warm sound of Tanya's voice and his father's rambling mixed with the occasional clink of chess pieces. The comfort of the scene almost made him forget how much time had passed. Almost. Something in the rhythm of the evening felt off. The house was too quiet in a way it hadn't been before, even with the music and laughter.
His eyes drifted to the hallway, his thoughts wandering. The warmth of the evening filled him, but then, without warning, he noticed it—his mother was gone. She had been bustling in and out of the kitchen all night, making sure everyone had what they needed, keeping the flow of the evening going, her presence a constant source of energy. But now, there was no sign of her. No movement in the kitchen. No voice calling to check if anyone needed more tea or another plate of food.
It didn't sit right with him.
He pushed his chair back, the creak of the wood cutting through the noise of the room. "Dad," he said, his voice breaking through his father's ongoing explanations of chess strategy. "Have you seen Mom?"
David looked up from the board, his face softening at the question. "She's probably in the garden. She likes to get some fresh air after a meal. You know how she is."
But Black didn't feel reassured. His mother had been everywhere tonight—present, always moving, always making sure everyone felt welcome. But now, there was an absence, a space where she had been. The subtle tension in the pit of his stomach grew, and he didn't know why. Maybe it was just the overwhelming feeling of being home again, or maybe it was something else entirely. Either way, the house was still, and for the first time since he arrived, it felt... off.
He stood up, his gaze lingering on the door that led outside. Without a word, he walked toward it.
A few moments passed as Black stood in the quiet of the yard, the sounds from the house gradually fading into the background. His thoughts swirled—what had been an evening of joy now felt heavy with something unspoken. He knew his mother had been bustling all night, but now there was a strange stillness to the house, and it unsettled him.
Without a word to anyone, Black turned and walked back toward the house. He passed through the back door and moved quietly through the kitchen, scanning the rooms for any sign of his mother. He checked the living room, the hallway—but she wasn't there.
It wasn't until he reached her bedroom that he stopped.
Black stood in the doorway for a long moment, his breath caught in his throat. His mother, kneeling at the foot of her bed, her hands clasped together, was sobbing softly. The quiet, broken sounds of her grief filled the room, and for the first time in his life, Black realized how much of her strength had been a façade, held together by years of holding on.
He stood there, unsure of what to do. This wasn't a moment he had expected to find. His mother, always the one who kept everything running, was here, now unraveling in a way that felt impossible.
For a long moment, he stayed frozen in place, watching her from the doorway, giving her the space she needed. He wanted to step forward, wanted to comfort her, but something held him back—the instinct to let her have this moment of release, to let go of the years of grief and fear she had been carrying.
As Black stood in the doorway, his eyes fixed on his mother, he felt a sharp pang in his chest. The woman who had always been a pillar of strength, who had carried so much on her shoulders for so long, was now broken in a way he had never seen. She knelt at the foot of her bed, her sobs soft but raw, her body trembling as though releasing all the years of unspoken grief.
For a moment, Black stood frozen, unsure of how to proceed. His instinct was to step forward, to reach for her, but he hesitated. He knew better than to interrupt this fragile moment. This was her grief, her release. She had carried it alone for so long.
But as the sobs quieted and the room filled with a heavy silence, Black took a step forward. His mind raced, the need to comfort her pushing him forward. But before he could take another step, a hand gripped his arm, stopping him.
"Don't," his father's voice was low, firm, but gentle. "Let her be." Pulling Black gently away from the door. "Let's go for a walk."
Black glanced at his father, feeling a mix of confusion and concern. But he didn't protest as his father guided him away from the room, away from the grief he wasn't sure how to handle. His father didn't say anything else, and Black didn't need him to. The unspoken understanding was there—some moments weren't for him to fix.