CHAPTER XLVII
"The Return I Wasn't Ready For"
The morning arrived with the gentleness of soft sunlight pouring through the curtains. The rain had finally stopped, leaving behind a city washed clean — quiet streets, glistening leaves, and the faint scent of mud and peace.
Inside the apartment, the warmth still lingered, but I knew it was time to leave.
I had already changed back into my own clothes — the ones I had arrived in, soaked, broken, and lost. Now they were dry, but I wasn't sure if I was. Some parts of me still felt damp with yesterday's pain.
As I packed my things and moved toward the door, I turned to Hannah, who was now quietly setting the kitchen in order, and said softly,
> "Thank you… for everything."
She turned to look at me and smiled — the kind of smile that didn't need many words.
Just as I was about to leave, she said, gently,
> "Wait. Mom's gone out for a bit. She should be back soon. Why don't you stay until she returns? I think she'd want to say goodbye."
I hesitated. A part of me wanted to step out into the world quickly, quietly — without another round of emotion.
But another part of me — the grateful one — knew how much Hannah and her mother had done for me.
How they had held my broken pieces without asking how I got them.
So I nodded and stayed.
Hannah moved into the kitchen, beginning to chop vegetables for breakfast. The silence between us was comfortable now, like a soft blanket wrapped around two people who had survived something — separately, but together.
I watched her from the corner of my eye, admiring the quiet way she carried herself — strong, but gentle.
And then, suddenly —
> "Ah—!" she gasped, pulling her hand back.
Her finger had slipped against the knife.
Blood.
It wasn't deep, but it was enough to jolt me from where I stood. Instinctively, I rushed to her side, grabbing a tissue from the table and reaching for her hand.
> "Let me help—" I began.
But before I could even say more, the door opened.
And in walked her mother — holding a small bag of groceries and looking mildly concerned.
> "Hannah!" she said quickly. "I told you to be careful with that knife!"
Then, as her eyes scanned the room, she added something that made the air around me freeze.
> "By the way… the girls who were looking for Sam — they're here."
My heart stuttered.
Hannah and I both turned toward the doorway in perfect unison.
And there they were.
Standing just beyond the threshold, framed by the soft morning light.
Mahi. Aarvi. And Mon.
Time stopped.
I couldn't hear anything else — not the ticking clock, not Hannah's breath beside me, not even the rustle of leaves outside.
All I could hear was the pounding of my heart in my ears.
My eyes locked on Mon like they had a mind of their own — unwilling to look away, even when I wanted to.
She stood still, her expression unreadable. Her presence — so familiar, so haunting — made the room feel too small, too suffocating.
In that single second, a hundred emotions surged inside me: Shock. Anger. Betrayal. Confusion. Hurt.
And worst of all…
Hope.
Because despite everything, my stupid, aching heart still reacted to her the same way it always did — like it remembered a version of her that used to be mine.
But that version was gone now.
I knew it.
She made sure I did.
Still… seeing her — like this, so suddenly — it felt like the ground beneath my feet had been ripped away.
I wasn't ready for this. Not now. Not today.
And yet… she was here.
And my world?
My world was spinning all over again.
"A Home That Wasn't Mine… But Felt Like It"
I gently took Hannah's hand in mine, careful not to touch the fresh cut. Her skin was warm, and her fingers trembled slightly — maybe from the sting of the wound, or maybe just from the moment itself. I applied the ointment slowly, silently, wrapping the bandage around her finger with the kind of care that comes not just from responsibility… but from gratitude.
Gratitude for everything she and her mother had done for me.
When I finished, I gave her a small nod, then stood up, turning toward the hallway — where my shoes and bag waited like a quiet reminder that this was never supposed to be more than a temporary stop.
I stepped into the living room where her mother was now putting groceries away. I took a deep breath, then said gently,
> "I should get going now. Thank you… for everything."
She turned around, her kind eyes softening even more than usual. She walked up to me, wiping her hands on the edge of her saree, and gave me a smile that held warmth, pride… and something maternal.
> "Of course, sweetheart. But please — come visit again, okay?"
I nodded, and then — in a voice that felt suddenly shy, like a child asking for something too big — I said,
> "Um… if you don't mind… could I call you 'Mom'?"
There was a silence — not awkward, but full.
Like the world had paused to listen to her answer.
She blinked, and in the next second, her eyes shimmered. Her lips parted in a smile so genuine it made something inside me ache.
> "Oh, sweetie… of course you can. You're just like Hannah to me. You know… when I look at you, I'm reminded of my other daughter — the one who lives far away. You carry the same kind of quiet strength."
My throat tightened.
I hadn't expected her to say yes so easily.
I hadn't expected her to say it with so much love.
I stepped closer, trying to hold back the emotion building in my chest, and said,
> "Thank you… thank you for giving me shelter. For taking care of me without asking questions. For treating me like I belonged… even when I felt like I didn't belong anywhere."
Her smile deepened, and in the next moment, she pulled me into a warm hug — the kind only a mother can give. Firm. Safe. Soft in all the right places. A hug that didn't just hold your body, but the pieces of your soul you didn't even know were falling apart.
She whispered, her voice tender against my ear:
> "I hope I get the chance to meet you again, Sam. Truly. You have a place here. Always."
And in that moment, I held her tighter.
Because this wasn't my home.
This wasn't my family.
And yet… for a fleeting, fragile second — it felt like I had both.
And that was something I would carry with me forever.
As I finally pulled away and stepped out into the world again, I realized…
Sometimes, we meet people not to stay in their lives, but to be reminded of the kindness still left in ours.
> And sometimes, being called "daughter" — even once — is enough to start believing in healing again.
To be continue....