The night air in the crime district was thick with smoke, the bitter tang of cheap liquor, and the restless hum of voices spilling from hidden alleys. The Yakosobi siblings had returned, their hearts restless, their minds burning with questions.
The broken school loomed ahead like a dark sentinel. Its windows were cracked, patched with cardboard and rusted tin. A faint lantern glow flickered by the entrance, where Guru sat on the concrete steps, elbows on his knees, head bowed as though in prayer.
For a long moment, he didn't acknowledge them. The three siblings stood there, shifting uncomfortably. The children he sheltered were asleep inside, their faint murmurs drifting out through the broken door.
Finally, without raising his head, Guru spoke. His voice was calm, steady.
"You came back."
The words weren't a greeting—they were an inevitability.
Amara crossed her arms tightly. "We had no choice. You didn't finish what you started."
Guru chuckled without mirth. "I never finish what I start. That's the curse of being unwanted."
He rose slowly, the lantern's glow climbing his figure. In the rags and scars, he looked nothing like the man their father had praised. And yet, when his eyes lifted, the force behind them was undeniable.
"You think I don't know you," he said, stepping closer, "but I do. Better than you know yourselves."
The siblings stiffened.
Guru pointed at Amara first.
"You, Amara. The eldest. Always pretending to be strong. Always pretending you don't feel the weight of three lives pressing down on your shoulders. You tell yourself it's duty—but it's fear. Fear of being forgotten. Fear of becoming your mother, cold and hollow. You cling to your 'dreams' of escape, of a better life, but they're not dreams, are they? They're chains. You chase something you'll never catch, and deep down you know it."
Amara's lips quivered, but she refused to look away. His words struck too close.
Guru's eyes shifted to Chima.
"And you. Chima. The rebel with a cause. You scream about justice, about law, about becoming a lawyer to fight the system. But justice has nothing to do with it. You just want power. You want to stand in court and bend truth to your will. You want to control the narrative, silence your enemies. You hide your hunger behind noble words, but it's hunger all the same."
Chima's fists clenched so tight his knuckles cracked. "You don't know me," he snapped.
Guru tilted his head, unbothered. "I know enough to see your shadow. You think you're different from the thugs who prowl these streets? No. You just wear cleaner clothes."
Chima's face flushed red, but Amara grabbed his arm, holding him back.
Then Guru's gaze fell on Ife, the youngest. The boy's eyes darted away, but Guru followed his fear with precision.
"And you, Ife. The prodigy. The golden child. Father's pride. You don't even know who you are, because you've only ever been who he told you to be. You hold that photograph like it's proof of something, but it's only proof of his obsession. You don't love the company. You don't even care about legacy. You only fear disappointing a man who's already dead."
Ife trembled, the photo shaking in his hand. His throat tightened, words failing him.
Guru stepped back, letting his verdicts sink in.
"You thought me a fool because of these rags," he said, gesturing to his torn coat, "because I live here, among the abandoned. But I see clearer than all of you. You wear better clothes, you sleep under safer roofs, but you're blind. You are prisoners of illusions."
The siblings exchanged glances. His words had pierced them deeper than they cared to admit.
"Father praised you," Guru went on, his voice growing harder. "Every night he prayed for you. For your success. For your safety. For your future. He called you blessings, gifts from God. But do you know who he was really praising?"
They didn't answer.
"He was praising an idea," Guru spat. "An idea of children he thought he had. But it wasn't you. Never you. He prayed to ghosts while his living son rotted in the gutter."
Amara's face paled. "No. He—he loved us."
Guru's eyes flashed with rage. "Loved you? He needed you. Needed you to justify his failure. He looked at me—his firstborn—and saw imperfection. So he turned you into his idols. His saints. But saints don't bleed, do they? Saints don't break. And yet look at you—crumbling because a stranger points out what you already know inside."
Chima exploded. "You think you're better than us?! You think being bitter makes you wise?!"
Guru stepped forward, so close Chima could feel the heat of his breath. "No. I don't think I'm better. I know I'm the only one who stopped pretending. I faced the truth. And it destroyed me. Now it's your turn."
Amara grabbed Chima's arm again, pulling him back. She turned to Guru, her eyes shining with tears. "If you know so much, then tell us—why? Why did Father want us to find you?"
Guru's face hardened, shadow swallowing his scar. "Because he was afraid. Afraid the lies he built would collapse without me. Afraid that if you ever saw me, you'd see yourselves for what you truly are. And now you have."
The siblings froze. The night around them felt heavier, as though the city itself held its breath.
Then Guru's voice softened, almost mournful. "Father prayed for you. He never prayed for me. And yet, here I am, alive, carrying children who were thrown away just like I was. Tell me, which one of us is cursed, and which one of us is blessed?"
He turned, walking back toward the school. The lantern light caught his silhouette, stretching it long and jagged across the wall.
The siblings stood rooted in place, their hearts fractured, their illusions bleeding out. Amara's lips trembled but no sound came. Chima's fists hung limp at his sides. Ife looked at the photo one last time, then lowered it, ashamed.
Inside the school, the children stirred, murmuring in their sleep. Guru's shadow lingered over them like a guardian—or a warning.
And for the first time, the Yakosobi siblings felt something worse than grief or anger.
They felt guilt.