Chapter 75
That question fell like a stone, plunging deep into the quiet lake within Shaqar's chest.
He trembled slightly.
Not because of the air, but because that voice touched the deepest part of him—one that hadn't been reached by anyone for so long.
He wanted to say no, to brush it off with a small laugh as he usually did.
But his tongue stiffened, as though locked by guilt that had long solidified through the years.
In his mind, the image of little Miara flashed—laughing, hugging him, then slowly fading away, replaced by that cold stare she gave after her mother's funeral.
Shaqar could still recall how the air had felt frozen that day, how the scent of incense mingled with the bitterness of tears, and how, when he arrived eight days late, the once-warm home had turned unfamiliar and cold—just like his daughter's eyes.
There were no words to say back then, just as there were none now.
"This heart longs so deeply to draw near.To speak the truth within and ask for forgiveness, even though I know words can never heal every wound.Even if I must shed every tear that exists in this world."
"Then what stops you from doing so right now?"
"Because I can't bear to steal her laughter.Not today, not in front of those who gift her smiles untainted by bitter memories.If I were to come to her, I would only shake the small fortress—the fragile shield she's built to protect her heart from my shadow.Haaaaah—"
"How long will you keep delaying?Be aware, hesitation corrodes; it gnaws at one's courage until words can no longer be spoken."
"You're right.But I still fear that every regret I confess might only become the source of new suffering."
Under the dim flicker of an oil lamp, Shaqar's body stood still, frozen like a stone that had been submerged too long in the current of time.
His eyes gazed far ahead, piercing through the silhouettes of strangers outside the tavern, where laughter and idle chatter blended into a strange harmony that somehow suffocated him.
There she was—Miara—with laughter almost the same as before, only this time, without him within that circle.
He swallowed hard.
Not out of thirst, but because his throat suddenly felt dry from unspoken yearning.
Within him, the desire to step forward, to approach her, to utter even a single word of apology, flared like an ember doused in saltwater—burning, yet unmoving.
Apathy stood silently beside him, not fully understanding the burden hanging upon his captain's shoulders.
His gaze occasionally shifted, as if waiting for a decision that would never come.
Between them, the air hung heavy—thick with something far denser than mere silence.
Shaqar knew—the world before him awaited just one small step to turn into a battlefield of the soul, fiercer than any war he had ever fought.
He could have walked up to Miara, bowed low, and poured out all that he wished to say, along with tears he'd kept caged for years.
Yet something within him refused.
Not because he feared his daughter, but because he believed his remorse might taint the fragile peace she had finally found.
He glanced briefly at Apathy—a look that needed no words.
Within that look lay a dark but complete honesty: he wanted, so deeply, to speak—to deliver the apology that had rusted in his heart for far too long.
But behind that truth, there was also a quiet decision to restrain himself.
Let Miara laugh today.
Let her small world remain untouched, unshaken by the presence of a father who came too late—not eight days, but years late, in understanding love and loss.
In his mind, he reminded himself that every meeting has its time, and every wound its own season to heal.
But that time had not yet come—not today, not under this colorless sky.
Wusssshhh!!
Time moved slowly, as if deliberately stretching each second to prolong the torment in Shaqar's chest.
His body stood between uneven breaths and the tavern's clamor, yet his ears heard nothing.
Everything faded, leaving only one focal point—Miara, the figure who, even from afar, could still shake his balance.
He longed to move, to bridge that distance, but fear held him captive—chains of his own making.
It wasn't the fear of rejection, but of the fragility that might surface if his voice and face reappeared before Miara.
So, he chose silence, stiffness—the burden hanging in the air, heavy as his breath.
Apathy almost spoke, perhaps to offer a simple solution only the young and unscarred by regret could understand.
But one sharp glance from Shaqar was enough to silence him.
His captain needed no words—only time.
And the time he had now, Shaqar used to lower his head, avoiding every gaze, including his daughter's.
He feared even a single step or an accidental sound might draw her attention—might shatter that fragile bubble of peace she lived within.
With a subtle gesture, Shaqar urged Apathy not to say a word, not even to breathe too loudly.
In that strange stillness, the minutes stretched into an eternity of quiet suffering.
Miara laughed softly with her neighbor, weighing items, haggling prices, before walking lightly down the road home.
To Shaqar, every small movement felt like a lash across the skin.
There was a longing that wanted to scream, but it was strangled by guilt and caution.
He knew he was a coward—knew his courage had long been buried under layers of fear he could no longer peel away.
But that was who he was now—a man who had lost the right to be called a father, for he could no longer look into his daughter's eyes without drowning in old sins.
And when Miara's footsteps faded, the sound of her sandals disappearing into the distance, Shaqar remained rooted where he stood.
Only when her shadow vanished around the corner did he finally exhale—a long, trembling breath, as though freeing himself from an invisible net that had bound him for so long.
The world around him moved again, yet within, a cold void lingered—an emptiness whispering softly that regret is not only about the past, but also about the courage never taken when the moment called for it.
"At last, they're gone."
Fuuuuh!
"How unworthy I am.I don't deserve to be near her, let alone to ask for forgiveness.A sixty-year-old man like me, whose every step leaves a wound, still unfit to carve even the smallest chance."
Fuuuuuh!
'How ironic.You can lead nineteen men, including me, like a ruler of the world.But when it comes to your own heart, you're no different from the beggars and cowards on the streets.'
After Miara and her neighbor disappeared around the bend, the tavern sank back into its usual rhythm.
The fading sound of their steps was replaced by the whispering wind slipping through the wooden cracks.
Shaqar stood motionless, as if returning from an unseen war.
The first breath he released was heavy, carrying the exhaustion he had layered deep within his chest.
For a moment, that chest felt lighter—but the relief was brief, too fragile to be called liberation.
To be continued…