From that day onward, Zayan didn't work at the café anymore.
The boss and the professor exchanged a few quiet words — too low for Zayan to hear — and then it was done. No farewell speech. No dramatic ending. Just a simple nod, like a door closing behind him forever.
Zayan went back to the small room he stayed in, packed his bag slowly, carefully, as if rushing might make this real too fast. There wasn't much to pack anyway. A few worn clothes. A notebook with half-written thoughts. Memories he couldn't leave behind, no matter how badly he wanted to.
When he came back, the professor was waiting.
"Follow me," he said.
Zayan did.
He got into the car and sat stiffly, his bag clutched to his chest like a shield. The door closed. The engine started. And then — silence.
Not the peaceful kind.
The kind that presses against your ears until your thoughts start screaming.
No one spoke.
Zayan stared out the window as the city passed by, every street looking like something he might never see again. His heart kept pounding, his mind racing with worst-case endings. He counted turns. He memorized roads. Just in case.
Then the professor spoke.
"I've been watching you," he said calmly.
Zayan's body tensed.
"Not like that," the professor added quickly. "From a distance. For weeks."
Zayan's fingers tightened around the strap of his bag.
"I know your parents," the professor continued. "They were… good students. Kind. Smart." He paused. "But they were never good with people. Especially with those who didn't fit into their plans."
Zayan blinked.
No one ever talked about his parents like that. Not without anger. Not without judgment.
"They didn't know how to handle you," the professor said. "So they chose distance instead."
Zayan swallowed hard.
"That doesn't excuse them," the professor added. "But it explains them."
Silence returned.
Zayan finally spoke, his voice rough. "Why do you want me to call you father?"
The professor didn't answer immediately. He kept his eyes on the road.
"Because," he said slowly, "I failed to become one when I had the chance."
Zayan turned to look at him.
"I wanted to marry," the professor continued. "Long ago. But I chose my future instead. My work. By the time I realized what I had lost, it was already gone."
Zayan felt something shift — not warmth, not comfort — but understanding.
"I don't need you to trust me," the professor said quietly. "I just need you to try."
Zayan looked back out the window.
For the first time, his chest didn't feel completely locked shut.
Just cracked.
Not enough to let hope in.
But enough to let doubt hesitate.
And sometimes… that was the beginning of survival.
Zayan said he would go find his friends.
Not now.
Not soon.
Just… someday.
The professor asked him when, but Zayan didn't answer properly. He only nodded, the way people do when they don't want promises to become chains. The professor watched him for a long second — not angry, not disappointed — just thoughtful. Then he agreed.
"We'll talk about it again in a few weeks," he said.
That alone made Zayan uneasy.
How did the professor know about them?
About Lia.
About Aryan.
About the parts of his life he never spoke out loud.
Zayan didn't ask.
He was tired of asking questions that led nowhere. So he nodded again, said nothing, and let the car keep moving.
They reached the house as the sky was dying.
The professor's house was near the university — close enough that Zayan could see the tall buildings from the street, their windows glowing like cold eyes watching everything below. The house itself wasn't big. Not small either. Just… quiet. Too quiet.
It reminded Zayan of his childhood home.
And that was the problem.
Same narrow hallway.
Same faint smell of old books and dust.
Same silence that felt heavier than shouting.
But there was a difference.
Back then, silence meant neglect.
Here, silence felt… intentional.
The professor unlocked the door and stepped aside, letting Zayan enter first. That alone felt strange. No one ever let him go first anymore.
Inside, the house was clean but lifeless. No family photos. No laughter trapped in the walls. Just shelves filled with books, furniture placed carefully, like nothing was meant to be touched too often.
"This is your room," the professor said, opening a door at the end of the hallway.
The room was simple. A bed. A desk. A small window facing the street. Nothing personal. Nothing welcoming.
Zayan stood there, bag still on his shoulder.
"It's temporary," the professor added, as if he could hear Zayan's thoughts. "Everything is, in the beginning."
Zayan nodded.
That night, he couldn't sleep.
The house made noises — old ones. Wood settling. Pipes breathing. The kind of sounds that made your brain imagine footsteps that weren't there. He lay on the bed staring at the ceiling, replaying every word the professor had said.
I've been watching you.
You have potential.
Call me father.
His chest tightened.
Trust didn't come easily to someone who had learned that kindness often came with conditions.
He thought of Lia's laugh.
Aryan's stubborn silence.
His grandmother's voice, soft but firm, telling him that some doors only open to trap you inside.
Morning came without mercy.
The professor was already awake, reading at the table, tea untouched beside him. He looked up when Zayan entered but didn't force conversation.
"University is close," he said. "You can walk with me if you want."
Zayan hesitated.
"I'll think about it," he said.
The professor nodded.
That became the pattern.
Days passed. Then weeks.
Zayan stayed distant. Polite. Careful. He watched how the professor moved, how he spoke, how he never raised his voice, never demanded affection, never asked for gratitude. That almost scared him more.
Because monsters were easier to recognize.
One evening, Zayan overheard the professor on the phone.
"Yes," he said quietly. "He's here. Still guarded. Still broken."
Zayan froze.
"He doesn't trust me yet," the professor continued. "And that's good. It means he's survived."
Zayan stepped back before he could be seen.
That night, something changed.
Not trust.
But curiosity.
Maybe the professor wasn't trying to replace anyone.
Maybe he was trying to fix something he had broken in himself.
The house still didn't feel like home.
But for the first time in years, it didn't feel like a cage either.
And that terrified Zayan more than loneliness ever had.
Because hope, even a small one, was dangerous.
And he had already lost too much to lose again.