.Home.Home.A place full of warmth, of security. Somewhere he knew he could always go if he needed to withdraw and think. Or even just a place to relax. No worry of scrutiny from outside eyes. When he was young, he'd always run back home, back to his mother, where nothing could possibly touch him and shh, everything would be alright.However, it was strange how quickly the feeling of a word can change in one's mind, on one's tongue. It now felt dusty, like the thick layer of gray that had settled over his belongings (a now past life). Sheets were strewn over the furniture like ghosts of a place that once mattered more than anything. The walls fe
.Outro.It had rained the day he died.He could only recall it in snippets, mind clouded by a feverish haze. The light tap tap tap of drops of water as they rapped against his window. There were worried and anxious faces that slid in and out of focus; Nanny Aldrina here, Mister Jarvin there. He remembers them trying to say something to him, but the words became lost, drowned out by the shuffle of bedclothes being rearranged and a clattering tea set (his mother's favorite). Sounds became more distant— after how much time, he didn't know. Vision blurred, breathing stalled, and numbness crept into his limbs. Soon, the only noise he could hear was the p
.Stronger.They've grown up, he thinks, as he watches from the sideline of a battle. One of many they've had, and certainly not their last. There's blood running down his chin, a mistake that will scar over in the coming weeks. But what hasn't killed him will only make him stronger.The same goes for the family.With each push, they get faster. Each scar, harder. Every time they're knocked down, better. Soon no one will be able to catch up, not even these men in black or white. Millefiore had nothing on them, Yamamoto knew. There was no passion in the eyes of those they fight.No trust.Only fear.They fought for a leader they'd probably never met.
Sta.sh
