The sun began to dip behind the hills of South Crest, painting the sky in streaks of orange and gold. Vishwa sat on the edge of the wooden porch, nursing the dull ache in his side. The bruises from the spar with Joseph throbbed gently, but the pain was tolerable. In fact, it was grounding.
Inside the house, Maari moved with her usual quiet grace, humming as she poured tea. Hitami was curled up beside the hearth, drawing little shapes in the soot with a stick.
Joseph approached from the barn, brushing straw off his sleeves. For a long moment, he stood silently near the doorway, watching Vishwa. The tension that once crackled between them had softened since the spar. Now, there was something else: understanding.
"Hey," Joseph said at last, breaking the silence.
Vishwa turned slightly, offering a small nod. "Hey."
Joseph stepped up and sat beside him, their shoulders a good distance apart, but the silence between them was no longer awkward.
"You took some solid hits," Joseph said, glancing sideways.
"I've taken worse," Vishwa replied with a dry smile.
"Yeah, well... so have I," Joseph admitted, rubbing his knuckles. "Overseas training isn't as glamorous as it sounds. Discipline there can be cruel."
The two of them sat, watching the wind ripple through the fields. For a while, there were no words—only the rustle of leaves and the soft chirping of crickets.
Joseph leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "I used to think strength was everything. That if I trained hard enough, fought long enough, I'd be untouchable. But... when I came back here and saw you—broken, quiet, yet still calm—it messed with my head."
Vishwa's gaze lingered on the horizon. "I used to think the same. That martial strength made you whole. Then one day, it broke me. Left me with nothing but breath and regret."
Joseph tilted his head. "You lost something?"
Vishwa didn't answer right away. "Someone," he said quietly. "Someone who believed in me when I didn't believe in myself."
Joseph didn't press. The silence that followed was heavy, but not uncomfortable. It was a silence of shared loss.
From inside, Hitami peeked out through the door. "Are you two talking or just staring at the grass?"
Joseph smirked. "Both."
She skipped over and plopped down between them, her small hands filled with wildflowers. "Vishwa, look! I made this for you."
She held up a flower bracelet, slightly lopsided but full of effort. Vishwa took it gently, smiling. "Thank you. It's perfect."
Joseph raised an eyebrow. "I don't get bracelets."
Hitami stuck her tongue out. "You already got muscles. That's enough."
All three of them laughed—an easy, genuine sound that felt rare.
Later that night, after dinner, they sat together under the stars in the open yard. Maari sat on her rocking chair with her knitting, while Joseph, Hitami, and Vishwa lay back on the grass, staring up at the night sky.
"You ever think about leaving?" Joseph asked softly.
Vishwa thought for a moment. "Sometimes. But not now."
"Why?"
"Because I'm needed. Even if it's just for fixing fences, or protecting little girls in the market, or... just being a quiet presence. Sometimes healing starts when you stop running."
Joseph looked up at the stars. "I never thought I'd see South Crest this way again. It used to feel small. But now, it feels... right."
Hitami yawned beside them and curled up next to Vishwa's arm. "You're both family now," she mumbled.
Vishwa looked at Joseph. Joseph met his gaze.
And for once, neither man looked away.
As the night deepened and Maari put out the lanterns, a peaceful silence settled over the home. The stars twinkled above like old friends watching over them.
But far away, on a hill beyond the forest, a shadow moved silently among the trees. A figure cloaked in darkness paused at the edge of the ridge, his gaze fixed on the distant lights of the farmhouse. In his hand, he held a small piece of parchment—burned at the edges—with a symbol drawn in faded ink.
A symbol Vishwa would recognize.
The past was not done with him.
But for now, under the stars of South Crest, he slept—safe, not alone, and slowly becoming whole again.