Chapter 88
In Apathy's hands, those simple objects became a kind of talisman, small proof that even from decay, goodness could still be squeezed out.
Meanwhile, Shaqar seemed frozen, his gaze clinging to the pale walls of the towering palace across the way.
His face stiffened, resembling a stone carving stripped of meaning, holding back emotions that pressed forward with nowhere to go.
Inside him, old voices began to echo, demanding that he wait a little longer, consider a little more carefully, delay just a bit again—exactly as he always had.
But time did not wait, and intentions left frozen for too long would turn into burdens.
Apathy knew that.
She understood that within Shaqar's long silence lay a fear that no ordinary courage could heal.
So, without saying anything, she stepped forward, carrying that burden with her like someone too tired to wait for the world to move on its own.
Her hand, cold yet firm, reached for Shaqar's right hand.
The touch was brief, but carried meaning deeper than a thousand comforting words.
She did not pull harshly, merely gave a small nudge—just enough to make Shaqar realize that stillness was a choice that also aged.
Their skin met, cold against cold, carrying a faint current of unspoken emotion.
Within that simple gesture, there was a silent command—a wordless call to live again.
Apathy looked straight ahead, while Shaqar allowed his steps to follow.
In his heart, he knew it was not him leading this time, but the person beside him, someone who had unknowingly become the hands that replaced his long-muted voice.
'Why is my heart beating this fast?
Even my breath feels like shards of glass.
Damn, I can't control it—it's as if every step toward that house drags all my sins to the surface.'
Tsraaaat!
"Too difficult."
"What suddenly made you like this, Captain?
Just now you were determined to move forward, and now you're stammering like a malfunctioning robot?"
"Don't understand, nor do I know.
But for some reason, my heart says this is a bad idea.
Exactly like the first step that could destroy whatever peace is left in me."
A few meters after their steps began finding rhythm, something inside Shaqar suddenly snapped.
His movement was abrupt, almost reflexive, when his right hand halted the grip Apathy had been using to guide him.
With one small tug, he pulled Apathy's left hand away, trying to free himself from something too overwhelming to face.
The scrape of their shoes abruptly stopped at the same time, slicing through the damp quiet of the courtyard.
The air around them froze, and only their breaths remained—heavy, restrained, as if carrying an invisible burden that had just shifted shape.
Apathy turned, her step halted mid-stride.
Her face reflected confusion.
Not anger or disappointment, but genuine incomprehension at the reason behind that sudden movement.
Her eyes looked at Shaqar with the most suspended question, while her breath formed thin mist floating in the cold air.
Before her, Shaqar stood rigid like someone who had lost direction in the middle of a ritual he was supposed to be fully prepared for.
There was a tremor at his fingertips—a tremor not born from cold but from fear thickening in his chest.
His gaze was empty, yet he blinked quickly from time to time, as if trying to erase the shadows of the past haunting him again.
He did not answer when Apathy looked at him.
He only shook his head slowly, bowing slightly as he swallowed air that felt heavier and heavier.
Inside him, a thousand voices argued without direction—accusing, mocking, and warning all at once.
He felt their steps had been too fast, too bold, too honest for someone who had not truly made peace with his past.
Every heartbeat pounding against his chest felt like a knock on his door from Miara herself—a door he was not ready to face.
His nervousness was no longer mere unease, but the purest form of fear.
Fear of honesty, of opportunity, of the possibility that his apology might instead become a new wound for all of them.
"Calm down, Captain.
You can get through this, and I know you can.
There is no battlefield heavier than one's own heart, but haven't you lived for years in chaos far worse than this?"
Hoooooh!
"If you want to end the distance between you and Miara, then throw away that cowardice.
Don't let your fear become an excuse to retreat again.
She doesn't need a perfect father, Shaqar—she only needs a father brave enough to acknowledge his wounds."
Fiiiih!
"You've hidden for too long behind devotion and noble excuses.
Now prove that your heart can still beat for what is right.
One step, Captain.
Just one step—and the rest will follow."
Apathy took a long breath, trying to calm herself before channeling that calm into the man before her.
Her gaze was gentle, yet beneath it lay firmness that almost resembled anger wrapped in compassion.
She approached Shaqar slowly and stood before him, close enough to see how the captain's fingers still trembled despite his attempts to hide them.
The wind that earlier chilled them now left only a thick silence, as if the world were giving space for two people wrestling with their own shadows.
Among the damp scent of moss and aging earth, Apathy let her eyes speak—eyes filled with urging, telling Shaqar not to remain imprisoned by his fear.
She leaned slightly, touching his shoulder carefully, pouring strength into that simple gesture.
There was no grandeur in the movement, only honesty so sharp it cut.
In her heart, Apathy knew that regret could not be battled with gentle advice alone.
Sometimes, a satanic soul needed a push strong enough to shake it free from the mud that drowned it.
So with a low voice, she emphasized the meaning of courage he needed to embrace.
She wanted Shaqar to understand that there was no way to atone without stepping forward, no door that would open if one kept waiting for the perfect moment.
Cowardice, repeated fear, and nurtured doubt would only prolong the distance between a father and a daughter who should have been holding each other again.
Shaqar listened, though his eyes still refused to meet Apathy's.
Every word felt like a whip, striking the weak corners of himself that he had long maintained under the guise of caution.
He knew Apathy was right.
He knew his fear had become a wall stronger than the towering palace pillars behind them.
But knowing did not mean being able to overcome it.
Something held him back—not doubt, but a guilt that refused forgiveness.
Every breath felt heavier, as if even the air refused to enter without the intent to change.
"I know, Apathy, I understand that I must be brave.
I nod in understanding, knowing the only way to atone is to step forward, face Miara, and resolve this misunderstanding—even if it means bearing all her anger.
But the more I think about it, the more my body rejects it.
I can feel my hair standing on end, as if the air itself mocks me.
What if Miara doesn't just shout at me, Apathy?
What if she looks at me like a stranger—as if I am no longer her father?"
Huuuuuuh!
"I've prepared all kinds of words, all the ways to apologize.
But if she truly refuses to acknowledge me again, what is the point of all this?
What is the point of regret if in the end what I hear is that I no longer matter to her?"
Shaqar stared straight at the palace before him, but his eyes no longer truly saw it.
To be continued…