(September 19th, 1986)
(10:15 AM)
(Friday)
"Getting evicted? Really? Right now?" Tomas's voice was low, filled with disbelief, yet tinged with a simmering tension. He stood stiffly in the orphanage office, the words echoing within him like a harsh reminder. Conflicted didn't capture it; he felt hollow, betrayed, and for the first time, a rare spark of anger flickered beneath his composed facade. The representative seated across the desk shuffled her papers, her tone cold and bureaucratic. "Tomas, according to government regulations, you've reached the age of legal adulthood. It's time for you to transition out of the system. So… why are you still here?" The statement lingered in the air like a chilling edict, devoid of warmth. Tomas remained unfazed. He faced the service lady, his voice steady yet heavy. "What kind of orphanage just abandons someone when they have no one to rely on? No support. No lifeline. Just profiting from child services." His tone wasn't filled with rage; it was forbearing, painfully real, the kind that made others uneasy. "We're not going to revisit this, are we, Tomas?" she asked gently, as if routine could erase the unaddressed issues. "No," he replied, his eyes empty. "We're not… Excuse me… do you have paper so I can jot down a note to myself?" The way he spoke, so impartial, caused her to hesitate. "Of course," she said, reaching for the drawer. But she didn't give him the paper. She paused, observing. Tomas hadn't shifted. He remained there, clutching a plush bear in both hands, gently turning it, squeezing it as if it were delicate. His expression was inscrutable, almost unnaturally calm, like a mask hewn from stone. You couldn't discern what was occurring behind his eyes, only sense the burden of everything left unsaid.
"I heard you're twenty-four now," the lady said with caution. "Did you do anything to celebrate?" Silence hung in the air, thick and concave. She opened her mouth to speak again, but Tomas interrupted her, his voice soft, almost a whisper that seemed to choke on itself. "Let's not revisit that question. Birthdays have lost their significance for me, ma'am. If you genuinely wanted to know about my plans, perhaps you should have asked fourteen years ago when it actually mattered. Or when you first took me in on that day." His gaze locked onto hers; dull, emotionless, yet somehow more piercing than any sharp object. He loomed over her desk now, taller, older, and infinitely more intimidating. Not out of intent, but simply because he didn't care. However, it was rather true. After those occurrences, no one batted an eye or even refused to take Tomas in; so that's when the lady took him into the orphanage. She never goes by a surname, but is only addressed by others to call her "Ma'am" only, and nothing else. Which is absurd, but what does it matter? "I apologize for asking, Tomas," she murmured, attempting to regain her composure. "I just want to ensure you're still cooperative after all these years. Ever since that incident, you've kept everyone at a distance. Always isolated." Her words struck a nerve. Tomas retorted, not loudly, but with a clarity that cut deep. "Coming from a service lady with both a therapist's and a psychologist's degree? Sorry to inform you, but you're failing miserably at comforting someone who lost everything, on the same day, he and his twin sister turned eleven, and our home was engulfed in flames. She perished in that fire. So did our mother, who was clinging to life, also dying that same day. I isolated myself because no one ever attempted to reach out to me. They laughed. They mocked. They left me to suffer alone. Isn't that answer sufficient for you, ma'am?" The lady was so stunned to speak that she couldn't mutter anything else but just stare at the figure in front of her. Which he then continued, "Look, Ma'am, I'm sorry about my insult and lashing at you like that. You did no trouble for me, but only took care of me. But that was my honest opinion." Tomas said, avoiding any eye contact with the lady, while having a defeated and vulnerable expression. As hard as it was to respond, the lady only gave Tomas a small smile and replied. "I understand your frustration, Tomas. So no need to apologize. I know revisiting those topics can be a bit subjective for you. But once in a while, you'll have to hear or even experience it again. Not physically, but mentally. Since that's the only way to get a certain amount of intel for others if they're curious about some talk," said the lady as she looked at Tomas with gentle eyes, while he looked back at her with watery eyes. The type that the tears want to fall, but are being held back simultaneously. "Here, have some tissues," she said while pushing the tissue box closer for him to grab some. "Of course, you don't have to respond. I'll give you space, so you can take a breather and ease your thoughts. Alright?" After that talk, Tomas only nodded, grabbing as many tissues as he needed, crumpling them between his palms, and walking to the farthest corner table; that's pretty secluded from everything. Sinking into himself, bearing limp in his hands. Her words echoed in his mind like a broken record. "Cooperative." "Isolated." And the memories surged back, the smoke, the fire, the sound of his sister's voice calling out as everything crumbled. He wished he could erase it all. He wished he could find forgiveness. But grief had deeper roots than he could ever imagine.
Dear Diary,
I'm being kicked out of the orphanage today. First time, apparently. They don't like "kids" coming back once they're grown, even if they have nowhere else to go. I guess I shouldn't be surprised, but it still stings. It may be because I caused trouble with the service team. I didn't mean to, but nothing I said seemed to get through to them. At least I found a small job. Twelve dollars an hour isn't much, but it's something. Enough to keep me moving, even if it's barely. I try to help people when I can, guide them, and do what's right. But every time I finish, they pull away from me. They thank me, then whisper to each other as they walk off.
"Let's get away from him. He's scary looking." I heard one of them say that today.
I don't understand what I'm doing wrong. I follow instructions. I do what's needed. I don't raise my voice. I don't threaten anyone. So, why does everyone react like I'm something to be avoided? It's been almost a month since I left the military: four weeks and five days? I thought things would feel clearer once I was out, but everything feels even more uncertain now. I'm trying to find stability, but it feels like I'm walking on shifting ground. Mom… Hanae… I miss you both so much. You're always on my mind. Every day feels like a reminder of what I lost, and every moment feels like a test I'm not sure I'm passing. I don't know how to deal with any of this. I don't know what's right or wrong anymore. It feels like I'm stuck in a place with no answers, only questions that keep circling back on themselves. I hate this feeling. It's exhausting. It's suffocating. It's… tormenting.
But I'm still here. Somehow.
...
"Of course, I've caused issues with the registration ladies, which is odd of me". "Sounds like the little Tomas I remembered". An unfamiliar voice cut through the silence behind Tomas, soft but charged with something haunting. He turned slowly, his eyes narrowing at the middle-aged woman who stood there, a gentle sorrow etched into her face. She took a hesitant step forward. "You don't remember me? Do you?" Tomas blinked, searching the blurred corridors of memory—until it clicked. "Barbara Cerny?" His voice cracked, swelling with disbelief. "You're... you're here!" The shock in his voice echoed across the orphanage lobby, stopping others in their tracks. "Sorry," he whispered, shrinking into himself again. Without much talking, Ms. Cerny only gave Tomas a small smile. However, as exciting as the reunion was supposed to be, everything felt too agonizing to grasp or swallow down. Even though Barbara was right in front of him, Tomas felt no warmth of recognition—only the faint echo of a childhood memory that didn't quite fit the woman standing there now. She looked smaller somehow, or maybe he had simply grown too far away from the boy she once knew. Barbara cleared her throat, the sound thin and uncertain. "You've… changed," she said, as her small smile that was plastered on her face now became a bittersweet one. "I mean, of course you have. Fourteen years is a long time." Tomas gave a slow nod, his expression unreadable. "People tend to, I guess." The words came out flat, almost polite, but there was a quiet edge beneath them, an edge Barbara seemed to feel. She shifted her weight, her hands clasping together as if she needed something to hold on to.
"I remember when you used to run around the courtyard with Hanae," she said softly. "You two were inseparable. Always laughing. Always—"
"That was before," Tomas cut in, not harshly, but with a finality that made Barbara's voice falter. He didn't look angry. Just… tired. Older than he should be.
Barbara nodded, swallowing. "Yes. Before." A silence settled between them again—awkward, fragile, like a conversation trying to stand on legs that had long since atrophied. She tried again. "I… I didn't know how to reach out after everything happened. When Lara left, and then I had to leave too… it all happened so fast. I should have written. I should have explained."
"You didn't," Tomas said simply. Barbara flinched, though he hadn't raised his voice. "No. I didn't."
He looked away, eyes drifting toward the lobby windows where the afternoon light spilled in. It painted him in soft gold, but the shadows on his face—those were carved by years, not sunlight. The faint scars along his cheekbone and one above his left eyebrow caught the light, thin reminders of places he barely remembered and punishments he remembered too well. "I heard you went into the military," Barbara ventured, her tone cautious, as if approaching a wounded animal. "That must have been… difficult." Tomas shrugged. "It was something to…clear my headspace".
-"That's not what I meant."
-"I know."
Another pause. Another breath, neither of them seemed to know what to do with. Barbara's eyes softened, tracing the lines of his face, the hardened jaw, the distant gaze, the way he held himself like someone always bracing for impact. "You've been through more than anyone should," she whispered. "I can see that." Tomas didn't respond. He didn't need to. The silence spoke for him, heavy, resigned, but not hostile. Just… outlying. Barbara took a small step closer to him so she could sit across from him. her voice barely above a murmur. "I didn't come here to reopen wounds. I just… wanted to see you. To talk. If you'll let me." Tomas's fingers brushed the plush toy hidden in his hoodie, grounding him. A reminder of the only person he wished could speak to him now. He exhaled slowly. "Talking's fine," he said, though his tone suggested he wasn't sure. "Just… don't expect the same kid you remember." Barbara's smile this time was sad, but genuine. "I don't," she said. "I only hope the man in front of me will let me know him, even a little." Tomas didn't answer right away. His eyes flicked toward her, guarded but not closed. Maybe that was enough for now.
Barbara tried again, her voice gentle but trembling at the edges. "I… I heard from someone back in the village. A friend of mine. She told me what happened that night." She paused, searching Tomas's face for any sign he was listening. "She didn't know your mother well, but she remembered the twins. Said you and Hanae were always together. Always looking out for each other." Tomas's jaw tightened. He didn't look at her, didn't give her anything to work with, just silence. Barbara swallowed and continued anyway. "She said the whole village changed after the fire. People still talk about it. The lives lost there, and your family. About how unfair it was." Still nothing. Tomas's eyes stayed fixed on the floor, as if the tiles were more deserving of his attention than she was. Barbara shifted, her hands twisting together. "Your mother, Lenka… she was always kind to me. Even when I didn't deserve it. I remember how she used to bring extra bread to the courtyard when she thought no one was watching." She let out a soft, shaky laugh. "She pretended it was leftovers, but we all knew she baked more on purpose."
Tomas blinked once. Slowly. But he didn't speak.
Encouraged by even that tiny reaction, Barbara tried again. "And Hanae… she was such a bright girl. Always smiling. Always trying to make you laugh. I remember the way she used to tug on your sleeve when you were upset." Tomas's fingers curled around the plush toy hidden in his hoodie, but his expression stayed cold, distant. Barbara's voice softened. "I'm not trying to hurt you, Tomas. I just… I want to remember them with you". He finally looked up and looked straight at Ms. Cerny, who was sitting across from him. His eyes were guarded, unreadable. "There's nothing to talk about," he said quietly. "They're gone. That's it." Barbara flinched, but she didn't back down. "I know they're gone. But you're not. And I don't want to lose you, too." Tomas exhaled through his nose, a slow, tired sound. "You already did," he murmured. "A long time ago." The words hung tightly in the air. They were simply true.
Barbara's shoulders sagged, but she leaned in a bit closer anyway - carefully. "Maybe I did," she admitted. "But I'm here now. And I'm trying. Even if you don't want to hear it." Tomas didn't respond. The silence stretched again, heavy but not hostile, just… worn. Barbara took a breath. "My friend told me something else," she said softly. "She said that after the fire, people in the village kept saying the twins didn't deserve what happened. That they were good children-"
" You're repeating yourself…"
"That your mother was a good woman. And that someone should have protected you-"
"Please stop, Ms. Cerny…"
"I should have been there," she whispered. "I should have stayed. I should have—"
"You didn't," Tomas cut in, his voice low but steady. "And nothing you say now changes that."
Barbara nodded slowly, accepting the blow. "You're right. It doesn't." She hesitated, then added, "But I still want to talk to you. Even if you don't answer. Even if you walk away. I just… want you to know I'm here." Tomas looked at her for a long moment, really looked at her. The years between them, the distance, the hurt… all of it sat in his eyes. But he didn't walk away. He didn't speak either. He just sat there, letting her words settle into the space between them. For Barbara, that was enough to keep trying.
Barbara tried again, her voice soft, almost pleading. "Do you remember how Hanae used to put flowers into your hair? She always said it made you look like a prince from those storybooks she loved. And Lenka—your mother—she would laugh and say you two were the only light in that village some days." Tomas's shoulders stiffened. His breath hitched, barely noticeable unless someone was watching him closely. Barbara didn't notice. Or maybe she did, but pushed forward anyway. "She was so proud of you, Tomas. Even when things were hard. Even when the village—"
" STOP!" Tomas yelled at Ms. Cerny. The word came out sharper than he intended, cutting through her sentence like a blade. A few people in the lobby turned their heads, startled by the sudden shift in tone. Barbara froze, eyes widening slightly. "I… I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"
"You are meaning to," Tomas said, his voice low but trembling. "You keep bringing them up. Like saying their names is supposed to make anything better." Barbara's lips parted, but no words came out. Tomas let out a deep sigh as he leaned back in his chair, jaw tight, eyes burning with something between anger and exhaustion. "You think I don't remember? You think I need you to remind me of what happened? I've been trying to forget those things for years. Every day. Every night." Barbara's expression crumpled, but she stayed where she was. "And now you show up," Tomas continued, his tone rising just enough to betray the crack beneath it. "After fourteen years. After everything. After I needed someone—anyone—and no one came." His voice wasn't loud, but it carried. It carried because it was honest. Barbara swallowed hard.
"Tomas… I didn't know how to come back. I don't know if I even had the right to." "You don't have to," he said. "But yet, you came anyway."
He wasn't yelling. He wasn't even angry in the traditional sense. He sounded… lost. Confused. Like he was trying to solve a riddle, but that riddle was followed by many more questions that were left unanswered.
"Why now?" he asked, quieter but more intense. "Why here? Why today? Why not when the house burned? Why not when I was alone in that hospital? Or when I was sent away? Or when I was—" He stopped himself when a sense of realization hit him. Barbara, who was now in front of him without him even noticing, her voice barely a whisper. "Because I was a coward." Tomas blinked, thrown off by the bluntness of it. "I was scared," she continued. "Scared of the grief. Scared of the guilt. Scared of facing what happened. And I told myself you were better off without me. That you had others. That you'd be okay." Tomas let out a humorless breath. "I wasn't."
"I know," she whispered. "And that's why I'm here now. Even if it's too late. Even if you hate me for it." He looked away, the plush toy in his hoodie pressed so tightly against his palms almost hurt. He didn't hate her. But he didn't know what to say next. The silence that followed wasn't peaceful. It was thick, heavy, and trembling with everything neither of them knew how to say. Barbara took a slow breath. "Tomas… I'm not asking you to forgive me. I'm not asking you to remember the past the way I do. I just… want to talk to you". Tomas didn't respond.
Just a response like that left a tight feeling in Tomas's chest, that's too difficult to describe. Leaving the already suffocating ambiance was much harder to bear. "Please, just stop. I don't want to reminisce on those moments anymore. And whatever you are trying to say or bring up will not change anything or bring them back. Ms. Cerny,"
Tomas stood there, breathing slowly through his nose, trying to steady the storm building in his chest. Barbara's apologies, her memories, her soft voice, they weren't helping. They were peeling open wounds he had spent years stitching shut. He finally spoke, his tone low but edged with something sharp. "As much as you want to speak. Please, just stay quiet for now". Barbara's mouth closed instantly.
Tomas took a step toward her, eyes narrowing not in anger, but in a desperate need for clarity. "You keep talking about the past. About my mother. About Hanae. About what you should've done." His voice trembled, but he didn't hide it. "But that's not why you're here. Isn't it?" Barbara blinked, startled. "So tell me," Tomas pressed, "what's the actual reason you came here? Why not earlier, but now on this specific day?" Barbara looked down at her hands, fingers trembling slightly. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper. "There is a reason. A real one."
Tomas waited,
She exhaled shakily. "Three days ago… I came back to the Czech Republic. I went to visit an old friend of mine in the village. She's very sick and was diagnosed with leukemia. She can barely move from her bed." Tomas didn't react, but something in his eyes flickered.
"We talked for a while," Barbara continued. "Just catching up. And then she said she had something she'd been keeping for years. Something she thought… belonged to you."
She reached into her bag, fingers brushing against something inside, but she didn't pull it out yet.
"It was a book," she said softly. "A small one. Worn. Burned a little on the edges. At first, I didn't understand why she had it. But when I opened it…" Her voice cracked. "I saw your name. 'Tomas Novak,' written in the bottom corner of the first page."
Tomas's breath hitched barely, but enough.
Barbara swallowed. "I asked her how she found it. And she told me."
She looked up at him, eyes heavy with the weight of what she was about to say.
"Two days after the fire was put out, the police and forensic teams came. They blocked off the whole area. No one was supposed to go in." She paused. "But the villagers… they didn't listen. They were grieving. Desperate. Looking for anything—anything at all—that belonged to the people they lost."
Tomas's fingers curled around the plush toy in his hoodie, gripping it like a lifeline.
"My friend went too," Barbara said. "She wasn't looking for anything of her own. She just… wanted to help others find pieces of their families. And while she was searching through the rubble, she found a small book half-buried under a collapsed beam."
Her voice softened. "Your diary."
Tomas's eyes widened—just slightly, but enough for Barbara to see.
"She kept it," Barbara continued. "Not out of selfishness. She said she didn't know where you were taken after the fire. No one did. And she didn't want it to be lost. So she wrapped it carefully, kept it safe, and waited."
Tomas's throat tightened. He didn't remember writing in a diary. Or maybe he did, but the memories were buried under years of trauma and survival. Barbara finally pulled the object from her bag, a small, worn book wrapped in cloth. She held it gently, like something fragile. "When I visited her three days ago," she whispered, "she told me it was time to return it. That it belonged to you. And that if I ever saw you again… I should give it back." Tomas stared at the book, his expression unreadable—shock, fear, anger, grief, all tangled into something he couldn't name. Barbara took a hesitant step forward. "That's why I'm here, Tomas. Not just to talk. Not just to apologize. I came because this… this is yours. And because she wanted you to have it before she…" Her voice faltered. "Before, she couldn't speak anymore." Silence fell between them, thick, trembling, and unbearably real. Tomas didn't reach for the diary. He didn't speak. But for the first time since she arrived… he didn't look away.
Tomas stared at the diary in Barbara's hands for a long moment. His throat felt tight, his chest even tighter. He didn't remember writing it. Or maybe he did, but the memories were buried under years of smoke, screams, and the cold discipline of military barracks. Still… he reached out. His fingers brushed the worn cover, soft, frayed, slightly warped from heat. It felt like touching a ghost. He swallowed hard and finally took it, holding it with both hands as if it might crumble.
"Thank you," he murmured, though the words sounded foreign in his mouth.
Barbara nodded, and relief appeared across her face. "I thought… You should have it back."
Tomas didn't know what to say next. His mind was a storm—questions, anger, confusion, grief—all swirling too fast to catch. He opened his mouth, searching for something, anything—
A loud THUMP echoed through the lobby.
Both Tomas and Barbara flinched, turning toward the sound.
"O–oh! I'm sorry!" a voice squeaked from behind a row of chairs.
Another crash followed—something metallic clattering across the floor.
"OH MY GOSH! I'M SO SORRY!"
A suitcase wheel skittered away like a runaway coin, spinning in a sad little circle before falling flat. A girl scrambled after it, nearly tripping over her own feet as she tried to scoop it up.
Tomas's head snapped up so fast it almost hurt. That voice. That tone—gentle, breathless, slightly chaotic but unmistakably bright. Dragging a half-broken suitcase behind her, the girl stumbled into view, cheeks flushed from effort and embarrassment.
"Aunt Cerny!" she called out, waving the wheel in the air like a trophy. "I swear I wasn't trying to make a scene! One of the wheels just, just gave up on life halfway through the parking lot, and now it's like dragging a dead horse across cobblestone—" She stopped mid‑sentence. Her eyes landed on Tomas. And Tomas froze.
Lara.
Barbara blinked, startled. "Lara, dear—what on earth happened to your luggage?" Lara held up the broken wheel helplessly. "It betrayed me. That's what happened." She dropped the wheel into her palm with a sigh, then looked back at Tomas again and really looked at him. Her expression softened, surprise melting into something warm and familiar. "Tomas…?" she breathed. He didn't answer. Couldn't. His heart was pounding too loudly in his ears.
Barbara stepped aside slightly, glancing between them. "I told her to meet me here," she explained gently. "She said she'd be a little late. I didn't expect… this much noise."
Lara shot her an apologetic smile. "Sorry, Aunt Cerny. I tried to be quiet, but the suitcase had other plans." Then she turned back to Tomas, her voice quieter now, almost in disbelief. "It's… really you." Tomas swallowed, the diary still clutched in his hands. For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to a single point, her name on his tongue, barely a whisper.
"Lara…"
It slipped out of him like a confession, fragile and trembling. The moment the sound reached her, something flickered across her face; recognition, relief, and something deeper, something he didn't dare name. Her breath caught, just slightly. He wanted to move, to step forward, to close the impossible distance between them and pull her into the kind of embrace he'd imagined in the loneliest corners of his mind. But his body refused to obey. His muscles locked, his pulse stuttered, and the diary in his hands felt like a shackle. Years had carved themselves into him: discipline, silence, survival, and now, faced with someone who remembered him before, he didn't know how to exist.
Lara didn't move either. She only looked at him, really looked, as if trying to memorize the shape of him all over again. Her eyes softened, warm and aching, but she didn't step closer. Not with Barbara standing right there. Not with the air so fragile it felt like one wrong breath could shatter it. So she held herself still, hands curled around the broken suitcase handle, shoulders drawn in, gaze steady but fleeting. A glance, then away. Then back again. A quiet orbit around the truth neither of them could speak of yet.
Barbara cleared her throat, the sound slicing through the moment like a blade. "Well," she said, too brisk for the weight in the room, "now that everyone's here, we can move forward." Tomas blinked, the spell breaking. Lara straightened, her expression smoothing into something polite, almost neutral. But Tomas could still feel the warmth of her earlier gaze lingering on his skin like a ghost touch. Barbara reached into her bag, her movements deliberate, almost ceremonial. "There's something you need to see." Tomas tensed. His fingers tightened around the diary until the leather creaked.
Barbara pulled out a sealed envelope, thick, heavy, edges worn as if handled too many times. She held it out to him with a solemnity that made his stomach twist.
"It's from your mother."
The air left his lungs in a slow, uneven exhale. He didn't reach for it; his hands were already full with the diary, with memories he didn't want, with the sudden, overwhelming presence of Lara beside him. Barbara continued gently, "Inside is a checklist. Instructions she left for you. And… your next step." Tomas's voice came out rough. "Next step?" Barbara nodded once. "You're going to Canada." The words didn't just land; they detonated. Lara's head snapped toward her aunt, eyes wide. "Aunt Cerny? What's happening exactly? You didn't tell me any of this when I packed."
"I know, and that's why I'm telling you two now," Barbara said quietly. "So, you two can go on with each other's journey, and help one another along the way". Tomas felt the ground tilt beneath him. Canada, A checklist, His mother. All of it felt unreal, like someone else's life being forced into his hands. He swallowed hard, throat burning. "Why now?" he said, directly to Barbara, but she didn't comply. Lara took a small step closer, not touching him, not even brushing against him, but close enough that he could feel her presence like a steadying warmth. Her voice was delicate, careful.
"Tomas… we'll figure it out. Okay?"
He didn't trust himself to speak, so he just nodded automatically. Obeying everything that's instructed to him. Barbara placed the envelope on the chair beside him. "Lara will accompany you," she said. "When she gave me this, your mother insisted you shouldn't go alone." Without any explanation, Lara steadied herself, forcing a small smile as she turned to Barbara. "I'll… call you when we land," she said, her voice polite but thinner than usual. Barbara nodded, distant, offering nothing more than a quiet "Take care, dear." It wasn't much, but Lara felt the sting of it, a tiny betrayal she tried to swallow down. She exhaled softly, then pivoted back to Tomas. "Alright," she murmured, nudging his arm with a gentleness that grounded him, "let's get everything sorted before we miss anything." Tomas blinked, still dazed, still trying to process the avalanche of information. Before he could respond, Lara reached for his hand, just a natural, instinctive motion of hers. Her fingers curled around his, warm and steady, and she tugged him forward.
"Come on, keep standing like that, and I'll actually believe you're those human statues." She said teasingly, almost making the "human statue" smile. They walked through the hallways together, her hand guiding him as she used to when they were kids sneaking out past curfew. At the front desk, Lara took charge, flipping through forms and speaking to the clerk with surprising confidence. Tomas stood beside her quietly, holding onto his diary with his left hand, resting. Then the clerk slid a thin stack of papers toward them. "These as well," she said. "Eviction notice, it needs his signature."
Lara froze mid‑sentence. "Evic—?" She cut herself off, eyes widening as she scanned the page. Then she slowly turned to Tomas, lifting one brow in a look that said everything without a single word. "What did you do now, troublemaker?"
Tomas stared back at her, exhausted, overwhelmed, barely holding himself together. He didn't speak, he just gave her a tiny, resigned tilt of his head, a silent message he knew she'd understand. "…I'll tell you later". Lara's lips twitched. A soft laugh escaped her, warm and familiar. "You're unbelievable," she whispered, shaking her head. "Still causing chaos wherever you go." He shrugged helplessly, and for a moment, the heaviness between them eased. Until the clerk lady added, "Also, he needs to pay for a penalty". Which left Lara even more confused. "What do you mean, penalty?" replying is complete confusion now. "He passed the deadline of his eviction. We tried contacting him, mailing him, and even faxing him directly. And, every time we schedule an appointment to meet up, all Mr. Novak will say is that he can't make it on time. Completely ignores it altogether or just runs away from it and never gives us a heads-up on his whereabouts at the moment." With the response, it's more than enough that Lara is going to question and yell at Tomas all simultaneously, about what the hell actually happened. Which he's fully responsible for. And even owns up to it, with full honesty. "...How much is the penalty?" Tomas replied, not even making eye contact with either of them, and already pulling out his wallet. Just waiting for the number to be heard. "That'll be Five-Hundred Dollars, Mr. Novak".
After they finished the paperwork together, they moved in a quiet rhythm that felt strangely natural. When they stepped outside, the late afternoon sun washed over them, warm and indifferent. Lara adjusted her bag on her shoulder and tried to pull her suitcase. Which is a struggle since it is missing a wheel. Before he could say anything, she looked at him with a gentleness that made his heart skip a beat. "Before the airport," she said softly, "is there anywhere you need to go?" Tomas took a second to respond, but did eventually, "The motel," he murmured. "I… need to get my things." Lara didn't question or judge. She simply stepped closer, her shoulder brushing his. "Then let's go," she said. "Lead the way." Before anyone moved, He just turned to look at Lara for a bit, then reached over to grab her suitcase and dragged it as if it were a normal walk in the park. And with that, they headed toward the place he'd called home for far too many years, ready to gather what little he had left before stepping into whatever waited next.