The sky was a dull, lifeless gray as I stood before the rusted iron gate.
The house—if I could still call it that—looked like it was holding its breath, barely standing against the years of neglect. The faded paint peeled like brittle old skin, the wooden walls cracked and weathered from too many storms.
My legs felt like they could give out at any moment, but I forced myself forward, cradling my baby tighter against my chest.
Each creak of the gate sounded louder than my own heartbeat.
I swallowed hard. My mouth tasted of salt and regret.
"Dad…" I called out, my voice hoarse, barely a whisper against the biting wind.
No answer.
I stepped inside, my feet sinking into the rotting floorboards. The air smelled of dampness and old memories—faint traces of herbal medicine and the bitter scent of poverty.
And then I heard it.
A faint, ragged cough.
I rushed toward the sound, my eyes already burning with tears.
There he was.
My father.
A man who had once stood tall and strong, now just a fragile figure swallowed by thin blankets on an old wooden bed. His chest rose and fell with painful effort, each breath sounding like a struggle against the weight of the world.
When his eyes fluttered open and he saw me, a tear slipped down his hollow cheek.
"You… finally came home…" His voice was so faint, I had to lean closer just to hear it.
My knees hit the floor. I couldn't hold back the sobs anymore.
"Dad… I'm sorry… I'm so, so sorry…"
My hands trembled as I guided his frail fingers toward the baby.
"This… this is your grandson."
His lips trembled, the faintest smile forming as his bony fingers touched the baby's soft cheek.
"You… survived…" he whispered, a single tear falling from the corner of his eye before his lids closed again, his breathing shallow and uneven.
And in that moment, holding his hand against the warmth of new life, my heart shattered all over again.
I had nothing left.
No home. No future.
But for now… I had this.
I was home. And I was still alive.