Chapter 79
At the edge of sixty years, all I gained was a sense of loneliness and cold, not the happiness of becoming a grandfather.
Miara, my little daughter, now looked at me with the gaze of a stranger, and when I nodded, I realized that I was the cause.
Absyumura, my supportive daughter-in-law, had managed to make Miara happy.
Now they had a child, a grandchild I had never spent much time with.
Their life, once full of scarcity, had now improved.
It could even be said that they were prosperous.
And for a moment, I shook my head, nodding in understanding that all that wealth was the fruit of my struggles in Xirkushkartum.
From all the sacrifices and suffering I endured so that they would no longer live in hardship.
How ironic, isn't it?
I sacrificed everything for their future, yet in the end, I was the one isolated from it.
The atmosphere stretched longer, like a timeline unwilling to break, and there Shaqar sat in silence heavier than mere fatigue.
In his eyes, layers of past shadows gathered, resembling fine dust on an old glass.
He wanted to fix everything, to speak face to face with Miara—not as the captain who always distanced himself from emotions, but as a father who had lost the right to be called papa.
He wanted to explain—or perhaps just be heard—that all that was called ego was not because he wanted to win, but because he feared losing to something beyond his control.
Time.
Shaqar understood that such a conversation would not be easy, for every word would clash with sharp memories, and every glance from Miara would remind him of love that never reached, lost along the long road he had once chosen himself.
Yet the courage growing within him now felt like a rusted sword.
He desired the meeting, but alongside it, another fear arose—the fear of looking into the eyes that once looked at him with pride, which now might only hold coldness and rejection.
The chasm he had unconsciously dug over the years had now become a valley separating their worlds.
Miara had grown without hugs, without explanations, and without the chance to understand that behind all his absences, there was a father imprisoned by guilt.
In Shaqar's mind, family was no longer a home, but a foreign field demanding new courage—not to fight, but to apologize.
He recalled the times when his work was an escape from all restlessness, when every order and decision gave the illusion of control he could not find in his own home.
But now, in old age and with faltering steps, Shaqar realized that all those achievements were no more than high walls keeping him from the warm light he had once ignored.
The desire to repair his relationship with Miara was no longer an ambition, but a need—a cry slowly becoming a prayer.
He wanted to atone for all that had been lost, yet time—as usual—only watched from afar, offering no promise to repeat.
Among the dusty records of life, one thing Shaqar always held tightly was the reality that all his hard work was not entirely in vain.
He nodded in understanding that behind all the emptiness left by his decisions, there was also something he had managed to create—at least in the form of stability for the family he once abandoned.
Shaqar had felt warmth while playing and joking with his grandchild, the child of Miara and Absyumura.
Unfortunately, that joyful moment was fleeting.
His world was soon taken over by task after task from Xirkushkartum, slowly but surely pulling him away from home, until he no longer had the chance to stay long within it.
Yet the irony was bitter.
The harder he worked in Team Xirkushkartum, the greater the distance that grew between him and the home that should have been his return.
The captaincy gave him honor, but also buried his human side under layers of rigid responsibility.
He fought for his family, yet the family grew without him, like a garden tended by someone else's hands.
Now, their life was better—steady income, a decent house, time to relax in the afternoon—all thanks to him, yet without him.
Shaqar realized how strange it was to be someone both accomplished and unwanted, like a shadow remembered only for briefly covering the light.
In his heart, Shaqar could not deny a pang of envy toward the peace now possessed by Miara and Absyumura.
He imagined them sitting on the terrace, accompanied by a child's laughter, while the sunset reflected golden hues on their faces.
That was a life he had once promised, yet never lived with them.
He did not know whether they—or more precisely, Miara, his only daughter—ever mentioned his name in their prayers, or erased it to avoid pain.
All he had fought for seemed to leave only an ambiguous result.
'Prosperity without warmth, stability without connection.'
He never regretted his hard work, yet he began to realize that success could also feel like a curse if it was not shared with those who should have been the main reason for all that struggle.
'Two hours and fifteen minutes remain, and Zhulumat Katamtum usually never grants more than that.
For him, three hours of free time was not preparation—it was a test, to judge who was truly ready to live in uncertainty.'
Fusssssh!
'He always said: the slow will be forgotten, the fast will be swallowed by time.
Ironically, in the end, whether fast or slow—all still head toward the same emptiness.'
Wussssshh!
The air greeted them with a bitter coolness as they stepped out of the shop.
The scent of damp earth mixed with the aroma of leftover charcoal filled the nose, while the lantern light from inside slowly dimmed behind them, leaving the silhouette of two soldiers appearing separate from the surrounding world.
Shaqar paused in front of the door, raising his right arm to chest height, glancing at the small metal watch strapped to his wrist.
Its hands moved calmly, unhurried, like time that always refused to panic alongside humans.
He counted quickly in his mind, ensuring the remaining time before orders from Zhulumat Katamtum took effect.
Three hours were given for preparation, and from this simple calculation, they had only spent forty-five minutes—leaving just over two hours to prepare for the major mission awaiting.
Apathy walked slowly on his right side, hands in the pockets of his long coat swaying in the wind.
His steps were light, yet his eyes never left the road ahead, as if trying to read signs among shadows and city lights.
Behind them, the stall where they had sat gradually sank into darkness, becoming part of a backdrop soon to be forgotten by the next task.
Yet for Shaqar, everything felt different.
Although he had just checked the time, it no longer mattered in minutes and seconds.
There was something deeper, an inner measure beating between his heartbeats, reminding him that every mission carried pieces of unfinished pasts.
He slowly lowered his arm, took a deep breath, and let the cold air fill his lungs.
In the silence, the shadow of Thalyssra reappeared in his mind—the holy city that was their destination, where all blessings and curses intertwined in a single breath.
To be continued…