And now—now that she was crying, calling him her son, reaching for him like a mother who had always cared—it was too late. He couldn't accept it. He wanted to… but he couldn't. He had moved on.
Or at least, he had tried to.
But the raw edge in his voice, the trembling of his shoulders, the way his anger cracked through his calm—it made one thing painfully clear.
He hadn't truly moved on.
He had forced himself to move on. Forced himself to bury that longing deep, layer by layer, through years of silence and solitude. Every triumph, every breakthrough, every realm conquered—it was all part of that effort to leave the pain behind. To prove he didn't need her.
And yet…
He had wanted her.
He had wanted this. Her tears. Her regret. Her arms open, not to claim his power, but to welcome him.
And now that it was finally in front of him, it felt like a cruel joke.
Because he no longer knew how to reach for it.
