The road was quiet.
Too quiet.
The wheels creaked softly beneath the caravan as dawn bled faint color into the sky. Lucas sat alone near the reins, hands resting uselessly on his knees, eyes unfocused—staring not at the horizon, but far behind it.
The past came anyway.
Fire.Screams.Steel flashing in the dark.
He remembered the sound first—the way wood shattered when the invaders broke through the door. The way Maya had screamed his name. The way Crisha had cried, small and terrified, clinging to her mother's skirt.
He remembered fighting.
Of how he fought.
He killed them. One by one. Men who had come to steal, to burn, to take what little they had. He remembered the weight of bodies falling, the heat of blood, the rage that drowned everything else.
And still—
It wasn't enough.
Because when the last invader fell, his hands shaking and soaked red, it was already too late.
Maya lay still.
Crisha too quiet.
The house stood—but his world did not.
From that day onward, Lucas had lived, but he had not belonged to life. He wandered. Fought when he had to. Helped when he could. Punished himself when no one else would.
Until the child.
Until Bereshith—small, thin, walking east beneath a merciless sun, carrying his baby sister as if the world itself rested in his arms.
Until Yareach's quiet breathing reminded him that innocence still existed.
Lucas swallowed hard.
"And now I chose violence again," he murmured, staring at his hands."They forced me… but still… I chose it."
His voice cracked.
"I did the right thing… right?" he whispered, as if afraid the road itself might answer."I protected them. I saved them."
His breath hitched.
"Maya… Crisha… I'm sorry. I'm sorry I couldn't save you back then. I'm sorry I failed you. I'm sorry I was a terrible husband… a failure of a father…"
Silence answered him.
Then—
"No. You're not."
Lucas froze.
The voice was behind him.
He turned sharply.
Bereshith stood there—awake, barefoot on the dirt, eyes calm and impossibly deep. Lucas hadn't heard him rise. Hadn't heard the door open. Hadn't sensed him at all.
"B-Bereshith?" Lucas whispered.
The child stepped closer.
"Lucas," Bereshith said gently, "you are not a failure."
Lucas' heart pounded.
"There's something wrong," he muttered. "You're… you're not speaking like a child."
Bereshith looked at him—not with innocence, but with something ancient. Steady. Unyielding.
"Your wife and your daughter," Bereshith continued, voice layered with quiet authority, "they forgive you. So forgive yourself."
Lucas' knees weakened.
He knew.
His lips trembled."…God?" he asked, barely louder than a breath.
"Yes, Lucas."
The words did not thunder. They did not burn.
They settled—like truth long denied.
"I called you to follow," God said through the child. "I granted you mercy and forgiveness. I gave you grace and guidance. Why do you refuse to forgive yourself for what has already passed?"
Lucas shook his head, tears spilling freely now.
"Because I failed them," he said brokenly. "When they needed me the most, I couldn't save them. I let them die. And now—now I save children I barely know? How is that just? How is that right?"
Bereshith stepped closer and placed a small hand on Lucas' shoulder.
The moment the child touched him, Lucas' legs gave out. He knelt, clutching the fabric of Bereshith's tunic like a drowning man.
"Lucas," God said softly, "only those who humble themselves before their past—only those who forgive their own failures—may find peace."
Then God raised His hand.
The air shifted.
Light gathered—not blinding, but warm.
Two figures stood before him.
A woman.
A child.
"Maya…" Lucas whispered, his voice shattering.
She smiled—the same smile he had memorized in another life.
"Lucas," she said gently.
"Father!" the girl cried with joy, running forward.
"Crisha—!"
Lucas sobbed as she threw her arms around him, her embrace warm and real. He held her tightly, as though afraid she might vanish if he let go.
"I'm sorry," he cried. "I'm so sorry—"
Maya knelt beside them, resting her hand over his.
"Lucas," she said tenderly, "please release yourself from the past. Crisha and I forgave you long ago."
Crisha pulled back just enough to look at him, smiling brightly."I love you, Father," she said. "So don't be sad anymore, okay?"
Lucas laughed weakly through tears.
She tilted her head. "Say it with me."
He knew the words.
"Under rain and cold wind," Lucas whispered.
"The fire will light up," Crisha continued.
"And along the smile," they said together.
Crisha stepped back, still smiling.
"We'll be waiting for you," she said softly. "In our new home. Together."
Then they faded—slowly, peacefully—like embers carried into dawn.
Lucas knelt alone, arms wrapped around himself, shaking—not with grief, but with release.
"God…" he whispered. "Thank you. Thank you for letting me see them one last time."
"It is because you believed," God replied, "and because you forgave yourself, that you were granted this blessing."
Lucas bowed his head.
"Now," God continued, "rise. Be guide and protector of My grace and My word."
Lucas inhaled deeply.
"Yes, my Lord."
The presence withdrew.
Bereshith swayed.
Before the child could fall, Lucas caught him instinctively, lifting his light body into his arms.
"Easy now," Lucas murmured softly, the warrior gone—only a guardian remaining.
He walk towards to the caravan, laid Bereshith back inside the wagon beside Yareach, covering them gently.
Then Lucas stepped outside, wiping his face, steadying his breath.
The sun had risen.
And for the first time in many years, Lucas walked forward—not haunted by what he had lost, but guided by what he was meant to protect.