The call came on a Tuesday evening, when the sky was the color of old bruises and the city sounded tired.
Elior was washing dishes in the narrow kitchen of his apartment, sleeves rolled up, water running too hot because he liked the sting—it kept him anchored to the present. His phone buzzed on the counter, skittering slightly as it vibrated.
Unknown number.
He ignored it.
The phone buzzed again.
He turned off the tap and wiped his hands on a towel, telling himself it was probably nothing. A wrong number. A telemarketer. The past didn't announce itself before arriving.
He answered.
"Hello?"
There was a pause. Breathing. Familiar in a way that made his stomach drop.
"Elior," the voice said. "It's me."
The world narrowed to a single point.
He didn't ask who. He didn't need to.
"I found your number," his father continued, like this was a detail worth explaining. "I didn't know if it was still yours."
Elior leaned back against the counter, the cool edge biting into his spine. His pulse thundered in his ears.
"What do you want?" he asked.
Another pause. "I was hoping we could talk."
The word hoping felt obscene.
"You had years," Elior said quietly.
"I know," his father replied. "I know I don't deserve—"
Elior hung up.
His hands shook as he set the phone down. The kitchen seemed smaller now, the air thicker. He pressed his palms to the counter and breathed, counting the tiles, grounding himself.
It rang again.
He didn't answer.
But the damage was done. The past had learned where to find him.
---
Mira noticed immediately.
They were studying together at the library the next afternoon, books spread between them like a small, fragile truce. Elior stared at the same paragraph for ten minutes without reading a word.
"You're somewhere else," Mira said softly.
He tried to smile. Failed.
"My father called me," he said.
Her hand stilled on the page. "Oh."
"He wants to talk."
"And?" she asked gently.
"And I don't know how to exist in the same room as him without becoming eight years old again."
She reached for his hand, thumb brushing over his knuckles. "You don't have to decide anything right now."
"But he knows my number," Elior said. "That means he can find me."
"And that scares you."
"Yes."
She squeezed his hand. "Then let me be here while you figure out what you want."
He nodded, grateful and terrified in equal measure.
---
The next few days were restless.
Elior jumped at sudden noises. Every unknown number made his heart race. Memories surfaced without permission—the smell of aftershave, the sound of a door closing, the careful way he learned to keep his questions small.
Mira stayed close without hovering. She brought him coffee when he forgot to eat. She listened when he talked and when he didn't.
One evening, as they walked beneath the streetlights, he stopped abruptly.
"I'm afraid," he said.
She turned to face him. "Of him?"
"Of what he'll take," Elior admitted. "I've built this life. It's quiet, but it's mine. And I'm scared he'll walk back in and ruin it."
She considered that. "What if he doesn't have that power anymore?"
Elior laughed softly. "You say that like power disappears just because we grow up."
"It doesn't disappear," she said. "But it can be taken back."
"How?"
"By choosing your boundaries," she replied. "And choosing who stands with you."
The implication warmed and frightened him all at once.
---
The call came again that night.
This time, Elior answered.
"Please," his father said immediately. "Just hear me out."
Elior closed his eyes. "I don't owe you anything."
"I know," the man said. "But I owe you an apology."
Silence stretched.
"I'm not asking to come back," his father continued. "I just want a chance to say I'm sorry. In person."
Elior's chest tightened. He pictured Mira's steady gaze. The way she had said boundaries like they were something he was allowed to have.
"Public place," Elior said finally. "Thirty minutes."
Relief flooded the other end of the line. "Thank you."
Elior hung up and sat on the edge of his bed, hands shaking.
---
He told Mira the next morning.
She didn't try to talk him out of it. She didn't push him toward it either.
"What do you need from me?" she asked.
He thought for a long moment. "I need you to not disappear if this goes badly."
She stepped closer. "I won't."
"And I need you to remind me that I'm not a child anymore."
She smiled, soft but fierce. "I can do that."
---
The café smelled like coffee and regret.
Elior arrived early and chose a table near the window. He watched people pass by, counting breaths. When his father walked in, time lurched sideways.
He looked older. Thinner. The confidence had drained from his posture.
"Elior," he said.
"Sit," Elior replied.
They did.
"I won't make excuses," his father began. "I was selfish. I was scared. I thought leaving would make things easier."
"For who?" Elior asked.
His father flinched. "For me."
The honesty surprised him.
"I didn't think you'd carry it like this," the man continued. "I didn't realize how much damage—"
"You didn't realize because you didn't look," Elior said.
The man nodded. "You're right."
They talked. Not gently. Not dramatically. Just honestly. Elior said things he had never allowed himself to say. His father listened, eyes wet, hands clasped tightly together.
When the thirty minutes ended, Elior stood.
"I'm not ready for anything more," he said. "Maybe I never will be."
"I understand," his father replied. "I'll wait. Or I'll leave. Whatever you need."
Elior nodded once and walked out.
---
Mira was waiting outside.
She didn't ask how it went. She wrapped her arms around him and held on until his breathing slowed.
"You did something brave," she murmured.
He rested his forehead against hers. "I didn't fall apart."
She smiled. "See? You're not eight anymore."
---
That night, as they sat on the steps outside his building, Elior felt a quiet clarity settle in.
The past hadn't disappeared.
But it no longer owned him.
"I think I'm starting to understand something," he said.
"What?" Mira asked.
"I spent my whole life thinking love was fragile. That it would break if I wasn't careful enough." He took her hand. "But maybe it's stronger than fear."
She squeezed his fingers. "Maybe it grows when you face it."
He leaned into her, heart steady.
For the first time, the past knew his name—and it didn't get to decide his future.
---