I never planned to return.
Not to the city I escaped from, and certainly not to the house where my blood mattered more than my choices. But death has a way of dragging you back to places you swore you'd never see again.
The message arrived at dawn.
Your grandmother passed away last night. Come home.
No greeting. No warmth. Just an order.
I stared at my phone for a long time, my fingers trembling as if the words could burn me. I had known this day would come. In our family, death was never simple. It was not the end—it was a beginning of obligations, debts, and rules written long before I was born.
By noon, I was on a bus heading back to the city I once called home.
The skyline rose slowly through the window, sharp and cold, nothing like the warm freedom I had built for myself elsewhere. Every kilometer closer tightened something in my chest. I told myself I was strong now. Independent. Untouchable.
But blood remembers.
The ancestral house stood exactly where I left it, tall and imposing, its roof cutting into the gray sky like a warning. Even after all these years, it dominated the neighborhood—ancient in spirit, stubborn in presence. People whispered about it. About us.
I stepped down from the bus, my suitcase heavy in my hand, my heart heavier still.
Black banners hung from the entrance. The house smelled of incense, old wood, and grief. Shoes were neatly lined at the door, proof that the family had already gathered. That the judgment had begun.
Inside, voices fell silent.
Every pair of eyes turned toward me.
I recognized them all—uncles, aunts, cousins I barely remembered. Faces shaped by the same bloodline, by the same expectations. Some looked at me with pity. Others with disapproval. No one smiled.
I bowed my head politely, just enough to be respectful, not enough to look weak.
"I'm here," I said.
No one answered.
They didn't need to. My presence alone was a statement. The one who left. The one who chose a different life. The one who broke tradition.
I found her body in the central room.
My grandmother lay still, dressed in ceremonial black and gold, her hands folded peacefully. To outsiders, she looked asleep. To us, she was only waiting.
Waiting for the proper rituals. Waiting for the family to decide her worth in numbers, in ceremonies, in sacrifices.
Waiting for us to pay the price of tradition.
I knelt beside her, my throat tightening.
She had raised me after my parents died. Taught me how to survive in a world ruled by names and bloodlines. She loved me—but she never protected me from the rules that destroyed us.
"I'm back," I whispered. "Just like you wanted."
Footsteps echoed behind me.
"You shouldn't have come alone."
I froze.
That voice.
Low. Calm. Familiar in a way that hurt.
I stood slowly and turned around.
Kael.
Time had not softened him. If anything, it had sharpened his presence. He wore black, his dark hair tied back neatly, his expression unreadable. The same eyes that once looked at me like I was the only truth in his world now held distance—and something deeper. Something dangerous.
"You shouldn't be here," I said.
"And yet, here I am."
We stared at each other, the silence between us louder than the mourning chants outside.
He had grown into his role. The heir everyone respected. The man I was never allowed to love.
"You came back," he continued. "That means the elders will decide everything."
"I know."
"Do you?" His voice lowered. "Because once they begin, there's no leaving again."
I clenched my fists. "I didn't come to stay. I came for the funeral."
He looked past me, toward my grandmother's body.
"This funeral will last longer than you think."
He was right. In our world, death was measured in time and money. In how much you were willing to sacrifice to honor the dead—and to prove your loyalty to the ancestors.
An elder called my name.
I followed them into the main hall, Kael's presence lingering like a shadow I couldn't escape.
The family gathered in a circle. The atmosphere shifted—less grief, more calculation.
"The arrangements must be discussed," one uncle said. "The rituals. The costs."
"And the responsibilities," another added, his gaze landing on me.
I knew what was coming.
"As her granddaughter," the eldest aunt spoke, "your role must be decided."
My stomach dropped.
"I already contribute," I said carefully. "Financially."
"That is not enough," she replied. "Blood demands more than money."
The room hummed with agreement.
"You left the clan," my uncle said. "You abandoned your duty. Now you must repay it."
Repay.
With what?
"With obedience," he answered as if reading my thoughts. "With marriage. With loyalty. With the future you owe this family."
My breath caught.
Marriage.
I looked at Kael instinctively. His jaw tightened.
"This has nothing to do with him," I said quickly.
"On the contrary," the eldest replied. "It has everything to do with him."
The room turned toward Kael.
I felt the floor shift beneath me.
"You cannot be serious," I whispered.
"The ancestors have spoken," my aunt said coldly. "Your bond with him was forbidden. And now, the consequences have come home."
Kael took a step forward. "Leave her out of this."
"Silence," the elder snapped. "You both crossed a line long ago."
My heart pounded. The past I buried was being dragged into the light, piece by piece.
"This funeral," the elder continued, "will decide the fate of this family. And of you."
I swallowed hard.
I had come home for the dead.
But it was my life they were preparing to bury.
And Kael—standing just a few steps away—was the love my blood would never forgive.