Chapter 86
Fear still hid in the corner of his chest, but the urge to move was stronger.
Slowly, he drew a long breath, letting the air enter and soothe the waves of guilt crashing through him.
Then, with heavy yet steady steps, Shaqar moved forward.
His body moved slowly but surely, signaling a firm decision in the midst of emotional chaos.
He walked ahead of Apathy, who remained at his left side like a shadow ready to support every motion.
No words were spoken, no sound existed except the footsteps nearly merging with the beat of his own heart.
That day, every step felt burdensome yet freeing at the same time, because for the first time in the longest while, Shaqar truly chose to walk toward redemption.
"I still can't believe it, Apathy.
After all the meeting discussions with Zhulumat Katamtum, we can walk calmly like this without the slimy echoes of the Cursed One's followers' prayers ringing in our ears."
"I didn't expect it either.
Usually after a mission, you disappear into the archive room to write thousands of pages of reports no one wants to read."
"Well, it's to look professional!
If I don't, people might think I'm just tagging along with the team.
Besides, if I don't occupy myself, I start thinking about strange things."
"What strange things do you mean?"
"Like—why you're still willing to work with someone as messy as me."
"Perhaps because I enjoy watching you panic every time something related to family comes up."
"Unbelievable."
"Hehe."
'Everything is ready.
Apathy has agreed to come along, and she'll be the one to help if my tongue freezes.
As for transportation, I don't need to worry.
As one of the captains in the Xirkushkartum Team, it's impossible that even 1% of my salary isn't enough to buy a car.
And then—
Ah, wait!'
"What's wrong now, Shaqar?
Suddenly remembering another sin from your past?"
"No, not that.
I just remembered something—it's rude to visit someone's family home without bringing a gift."
Their steps followed the road as the silence slowly melted.
Apathy and Shaqar walked side by side, and along the way, small laughs began to emerge—fragile, yet sincere.
Shaqar, who had been so tense moments ago, now looked slightly lighter.
There was a hint of relief in his voice as they spoke about trivial things, about foolish memories from the past, about old missions that once left only scars but now felt like worn-out stories they could laugh about.
Apathy listened with a faint smile, letting Shaqar enjoy the rare moment where the weight pressing on him eased a little, even if only briefly.
But the walk suddenly halted when Shaqar stopped in the middle of the road.
Apathy immediately turned, slightly confused, while Shaqar raised his left hand and tapped his forehead gently, realizing he had forgotten something important.
His gaze drifted toward the sky, and the cold air that had felt soothing now turned into a reminder that good intentions alone were never enough.
In that silence, Apathy was just about to ask, but before her voice could escape, Shaqar spoke first.
With a calm, slightly regretful tone, he reminded that it was improper to visit a family home without bringing anything.
His words were simple, yet they carried a heavy meaning.
He knew that merely showing up before Miara without something representing sincerity would seem empty—as if his visit was only a selfish attempt at redemption without understanding the act of giving.
Amid the cold air and the rustling leaves in the distance, the statement felt like a tremor that halted their steps.
'So that's what he meant by the gift earlier.'
Fuuuuh!
"In that case, what gift do you plan to bring, Shaqar?
I honestly don't know.
Miara isn't the type of woman who softens easily, especially after all the wounds you've left behind.
What can we possibly bring so your presence won't feel like a freshly sharpened knife?"
"Don't worry about it too much.
This time it's simple—fruits.
They've always been one of Miara's favorite foods since she was a child.
Of course I know that not only from Absyumura's stories, but also from my own experience as the father who raised and cared for her until the day she married.
I hope with these fruits, at the very least I can start a conversation without immediately being greeted by her cold stare."
Apathy looked at Shaqar with a confusion she could barely hide.
She suddenly felt like a follower lost in fog, unsure what to do or where to seek answers.
She understood what Shaqar meant—"a gift," something appropriate to bring as a sign of goodwill—but the question remained hanging.
'What kind of object is worthy of reaching a heart that has been shut for years?'
In her mind, she weighed the options—jewelry, flowers, perhaps something sentimental—yet none seemed valuable enough to reach wounds as deep as those in a fractured father-daughter bond.
Seeing her faint unease, Shaqar only offered a thin smile.
His face still bore the marks of age and exhaustion, but a different glimmer existed in his eyes—a glimmer of someone who, despite being haunted by his past, knew exactly what needed to be done.
With a heavy yet steady voice, he told Apathy not to worry.
He had decided, he said, that the best gift wasn't something grand or expensive, but something simple, honest, and full of memories.
Fruits.
Since childhood, Miara had always loved them.
That small joy, even now in her adulthood, could still soften her heart in times of turmoil.
Apathy paused for a moment.
To her, the decision felt odd—too simple for something this significant.
But when Shaqar continued by explaining that he knew this from his conversations with his son-in-law, Absyumura, Miara's husband, the odd feeling slowly shifted into understanding.
A warmth bloomed in Apathy's chest, a kind of respect toward Shaqar's way of choosing a small but meaningful approach.
Not with grandeur, not with redemption wrapped in dramatic gestures, but through a gentle thought born from the most human memory of a father.
'It seems my plan to apologize might actually go well this time.
Especially since Apathy is genuinely willing to help.
But—wait, there's one thing I haven't thought about.'
"Ah, Apathy."
"You forgot something?"
"The intuition of a Xirkuskhartum deputy truly is reliable.
You're right.
Before we go any further, I just remembered something important.
We need to buy fruits, but not from a place that's too clean.
Pick the dirtiest, foulest, most disgusting market or shop you can find.
The more revolting it looks, the higher its nutritional value."
"That's true.
We're not those pathetic Angels who beg for prayers from the Cursed Being.
At the very least, filth and rot are true purity.
So, let's find the best fruits—the moldiest ones with the strongest stench."
The sky hung dim above the two figures walking without a sound, accompanied only by the damp wind slapping their faces like a reminder of old sins.
The dusty road seemed to swallow their heavy steps, while the air around them held an indescribable weariness.
Within his aging chest, Shaqar carried a burden he could never hand to anyone else—a burden born from regrets and mistakes he had allowed to rot over the years.
To be continued…