CHAPTER 159: RAIN AFTER FIRE

The ride home felt longer than it really was. Billy sat in the backseat of the cab, watching the streets pass with familiar stillness, his mind already at the doorsteps of home.

It had only been a few days—but everything felt different now. Sharper. Deeper.

The cab pulled into the quiet lane, and as he stepped out, the porch light was already glowing. A soft invitation.

Inside, the air smelled of warm spices and fresh herbs. His mother was at the dining table, setting down a bowl of stew, her movements precise but hurried—like she couldn’t keep her hands still until she saw him walk through the door.

The moment she heard the door open, she turned.

"Leon."

He barely had time to set his bag down before she reached him. Her arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders, pulling him into a hug that said everything her voice couldn’t. He closed his eyes, letting it ground him.

"Are you okay, son?" she asked, gently pulling back to study his face. Her hands cupped his cheeks like she needed to see for herself that he was standing, breathing, whole.

He nodded, brushing her hand with a soft smile. "Yeah. I’m okay now."

She looked past him for a second. "Where’s Camila? And... Artur?"

"She’ll be back," Billy said, stepping into the hallway as she followed. "She dropped Artur off."

There was a brief pause. Then, a soft, surprised "Oh..."

"I thought he’d come home with us," she added, not hiding the faint note of disappointment in her voice.

Billy looked at her, uncertain for a second, then gave a small shrug. "He just... thought I might need time with you and Dad first."

His mother nodded slowly, though her eyes lingered on the doorway behind him, as if she half-expected Artur to walk in anyway. "That boy... he has sense," she murmured. "But I hope he knows he’s not just a guest here anymore."

Billy smiled quietly, heart warming at her words.

"Come, sit," she said, brushing his arm lightly as she moved back toward the dining table. "Eat something while it’s still warm. Your father should be home soon."

Billy glanced around the room that had once felt too quiet, too empty. Tonight, it felt different. Familiar in a way he had forgotten.

He sank into the chair, fingers brushing the polished wood.

It felt smaller now, or maybe he’d just grown in ways the room hadn’t caught up to.

’Home,’ he whispered—not as a declaration, but as a hope.

They sat across from each other at the dining table while steam rose in gentle ribbons from the stew.

The room was warm; evening light slid across polished wood and caught the family frames along the wall—graduations, holidays, mismatched smiles.

Billy glanced at them once, then back to his mother.

"Eat," she urged softly, nudging the bowl toward him.

He lifted his spoon, took a small bite. Flavor hit—ginger, pepper, slow-braised meat. Home. He closed his eyes just a second.

"You haven’t been eating properly," she said, studying his face rather than her own plate.

"I was unconscious for half of it," he said, half-smiling.

She didn’t return it. "Even before that."

He set the spoon down. "Yeah."

A breath. Not awkward—careful.

"I didn’t know how to talk to you," she admitted. "When you came back the first time—before the surgery—you were here, but far. I kept trying to fill space with plans. Doctors. Meetings. Work. It’s what I do when I’m scared."

Billy watched her fingers worrying the folded napkin. "I know," he said. "I think I let you. Because it was easier than feeling... split."

Her eyes lifted. "Split?"

"Between two lives. Two names. Two expectations." He looked down at the stew, stirred once. "Yours. Dad’s. And... the one I found."

She didn’t flinch at the unspoken name. "Artur."

He nodded.

"I saw the way he looked at you," she said. "Today. And the way you looked back." A pause. "If someone stays at a hospital bed that long, it isn’t out of politeness."

Billy’s throat tightened. "He gave me a place when I didn’t know who I was."

"And now?" she asked.

"I remember." He met her eyes. "And I still choose him. But I want—" he glanced around the room "—this too. I don’t want to lose my family to keep my heart."

Her gaze softened in a way he hadn’t seen since he was small. "Then we make room. You don’t have to trade one life for another. Not anymore."

He let out a breath he’d been holding since the day he left the village. "Thank you."

She reached across the table—not to fix, just to feel—and he met her halfway.

"I can’t promise your father will understand right away," she said honestly. "He loves you. He shows it through plans, direction, structure. Control, if I’m being unkind. He thought giving you a path would protect you." She squeezed. "But he’s going to have to learn to listen."

Billy gave a small laugh. "He’s never been good at that."

"I know," she said, smiling now. "But he didn’t lose you. That changes people."

They ate in quiet for a few minutes. Comfortable. She refilled his glass. He pushed the carrots to the side like he always did. She stole them with her fork like she always had. The old rhythms slipped back in, easy as breathing.

After a while she said, "When you’re ready—tonight or tomorrow—you should invite Artur here. Not as a guest. As someone we’re welcoming."

Billy looked at her, surprised by how much those words landed. "I will."

From outside, headlights swept briefly across the curtains. A car door shut. Another. Low voices near the drive.

His mother’s hand released his. "That’ll be your father."

Billy inhaled, sat a bit straighter, and wiped his palms on his jeans.

She rose, touched his shoulder as she passed behind him, and said quietly, "You’re not alone in this conversation."

Footsteps approached the front door. The latch turned.

And the room waited.

The door creaked open, and the familiar sound of polished shoes tapped steadily against the floor.

Billy’s father stepped inside, tall as ever, posture straight, suit crisp despite the long day. His face was unreadable—calm, composed, the kind of expression he always wore when something was bothering him but he refused to show it.

He paused when he saw Billy seated at the dining table.

"You’re back," he said simply, his tone somewhere between statement and question.

Billy stood. "Yeah. Got discharged this evening."

His father’s gaze moved briefly to the bowl on the table, then to his wife, then back to Billy. "You should’ve called."

"I... thought Camila would tell you."

"She did." He loosened his tie, removed his wristwatch, and set it carefully on the side table. "Still. A message would’ve been better coming from you."

Billy nodded once. "I’m sorry."

Silence stretched between them. His father walked slowly into the room, eyes never quite softening, but his steps slower than usual.

"You’re looking better," he said at last.

"I feel better," Billy answered. "A lot better."

"Good." His father nodded once, then looked at the empty seat across from Billy. "Is that for someone?"

Billy hesitated. "No. I mean—Camila sat there earlier. She’s taking Artur to my apartment."

That name landed like a quiet weight in the room.

His father’s brow twitched, not in confusion but recognition. "He didn’t come with you?"

"No," Billy said carefully. "He offered to give me space... so I could talk to you and Mom."

A longer pause. His father walked over to the cabinet and poured himself a glass of water. He didn’t drink it—just held it.

"I assume this is serious then," he said without turning around.

"It is."

Another beat.

"You’ve only just recovered," his father said, voice even. "Your mind... everything you’ve been through. Emotions get tangled in moments like that."

Billy stepped forward, calm but firm. "This didn’t start in the hospital."

His father turned slowly to face him.

"I loved him before I remembered my name," Billy continued. "And after I remembered, that didn’t change."

The silence now was heavier than before, thick in the space between father and son.

His mother’s voice broke gently through it. "Would you like to sit and eat?"

His father glanced at her, then back at Billy. After a long moment, he nodded. "Yes. I’ll eat."

He moved to the table and took the seat across from his son. No arguments. No loud objections. But the air remained tight, tense.

Billy sat too, unsure of what would come next—but certain of one thing:

This was the beginning.

Billy parted his lips, ready to speak again, but his father raised a hand—firm, quiet, final.

"Not tonight," he said, his voice low but resolute. "Focus on your recovery."

Billy’s throat tightened. "Dad, I—"

His jaw tightened before he spoke. "This isn’t love,’ he said—sharp" rehearsed, like a line he’d already told himself a dozen times.

"Whatever you think it is... it’s not love. You’re confused. You’ve been through trauma. Everything feels heightened. Distorted."

Across the table, his mother flinched but said nothing. Her hands busied themselves with folding a napkin already perfectly neat.

Billy’s voice wavered, but he didn’t back down. "You don’t know what we’ve been through. You don’t know what he’s done for me."

His father’s eyes narrowed. "I know where he’s from. I know what kind of life he leads. And I know it doesn’t belong here—with you. With us."

"Carlos," his mother murmured gently, a warning woven into her tone.

He ignored her.

"This is your life, Leonardo," he continued, his words clipped and heavy with expectation. "Here. Not in some... village. Not in the shadows of people who will never understand the world you come from."

Billy stared at him, heart pounding. "You think I don’t know where I belong?"

"I think you’ve forgotten," his father said. "And I won’t stand by and let you throw away everything for a feeling you’ll regret."

"A feeling?" Billy echoed, the word catching in his throat. "He’s not a phase, Dad. He’s not some accident I picked up while I was lost."

"You were literally lost," his father replied. "Do you hear yourself?"

The room fell into an uneasy stillness, the kind that wasn’t empty but full—of words unsaid, truths unwelcome.

His mother finally looked up, her voice soft but steady. "Carlos, maybe now isn’t the time—"

But his father stood, pushing the chair back quietly. "There won’t be a time for this. Not under my roof."

Billy’s fingers curled around the edge of the table, knuckles pale. But he didn’t speak.

His father took the glass of water he hadn’t touched and walked away, disappearing down the hall.

Billy remained seated, his breath shallow, eyes locked on the empty chair across from him.

His mother reached for his hand, squeezing it softly. "I’m still here, sweetheart," she said. "Even if he isn’t ready."

But Billy barely nodded, lost in a silence that weighed far more than words ever could.

His mother gently rubbed his knuckles, her voice quiet but firm. "Give him time, Leonardo. Your father... he just needs time to understand."

Billy let out a slow breath, the ache in his chest pressing deeper. "I don’t know if he ever will."

She offered a sad smile. "Maybe not fully. But you’re his son. That still means something to him... even if he doesn’t know how to show it right now."

For a while, they sat in silence—only the soft hum of the refrigerator and the occasional clink of her spoon in the mug filled the room.

The heaviness lingered, but it wasn’t suffocating anymore. Just... there.

Eventually, Billy stood, gently pulling his hand away. "I should go."

She looked up at him. "Now?"

"Yeah," he said, slipping his arms into the hoodie Camila had packed. "I told them I’d come back early. I don’t want to keep them waiting."

His mother rose with him, brushing her hand over his shoulder briefly. "Take the umbrella by the door, it might rain."

"I will."

"And call me when you get there?"

He gave a small smile. "I will."

She nodded, but her gaze lingered on him, something unspoken hovering in her eyes. "Tell Artur thank you... for everything."

He blinked. "You believe me?"

"I believe in what I saw between you two in that hospital," she said. "I may not understand all of it yet, but... it looked real to me."

Billy’s throat tightened again. "Thanks, Mom."

"Be safe," she whispered.

He nodded, grabbed the umbrella, and stepped out into the city dusk, the sky dimming with clouds and the streets already glowing with lights. His steps were quiet but certain.

He was going back—to Artur.

"Just as Billy reached the gate, footsteps sounded behind him—quick and familiar. The door opened.

"Leonardo," Camila called, stepping in quickly and shaking droplets off her scarf.

He turned. "Camila—"

"I called you," she said, her voice lightly scolding but warm. "You didn’t answer."

"Sorry. I was with Mom."

She glanced toward the hallway, then back at him with a half-smile. "I dropped Artur at your apartment. He’s settled in."

Billy nodded, eyes softening at the mention of his name.

Camila reached up and tapped his shoulder. "Rain might start soon. Go. He’s waiting."

Billy paused, wanting to say something more, but she gave him a gentle push toward the door.

"Go."

He smiled, grateful, and stepped out. Just as he passed the gate, the sky cracked open above him—the first heavy drops of rain striking the pavement in quick succession. He pulled the umbrella halfway, but a flash of yellow caught his eye.

A taxi had just turned into the street, headlights cutting through the rain.

Billy raised his hand, the cab slowed, and in a breath—he was inside, warm again, the city blurring past the window as the storm fell harder.

He didn’t care about the rain, the silence, or what waited behind him.

He was going forward—to Artur, to the life he wasn’t apologizing for anymore.