Chapter 95: Dignity
Sari sat hunched over his journal, the pen trembling as he wrestled with thoughts that had haunted him for a quarter of a century. As dusk faded into night, the city stretched infinitely beyond view. Yet here within these walls, silence persisted, interrupted now and then by the faint murmur of traffic in the distance.
"Happiness has been illusory to me since I was a kid." he wrote, the pen carving the words into the thick, textured paper. He paused, running a hand through his unkempt hair, and glanced at the cracked mirror on the far wall. His reflection stared back—gaunt cheeks, weary eyes, and a look so empty, it felt as though it belonged to no one.
The fractures in the glass seemed to multiply as he looked, each one a jagged line cutting through the ghost of who he once was.
His mind drifted to his grandmother's living room, where the rich aroma of jasmine mingled with the earthy fragrance of her cherished potted plants. The afternoon sun filtered through lace curtains, leaving delicate patterns on the timeworn wallpaper. It was the one place he had ever felt truly secure. The one place he'd ever known as home.
"Remember, Sari," her voice had been warm, steady, "you can't pour from an empty cup. Tend to yourself first, child, or you'll find you've nothing left to give anyone else."
But that wisdom had failed to follow him into adulthood. As the years passed, happiness became a mirage, receding no matter how far he reached. Simplicity—something he had once longed for—remained just out of grasp. His mind flickered to the darker days of his youth: the plate smashing against the wall, its shards glittering like tiny daggers on the kitchen floor.
"You don't think what I do is enough, you ungrateful brat?" She had snapped, her words came out like venom. Before he could answer, the plate shattered against the wall, shards scattering across the floor. The smell of breakfast—tomatoes, eggs, butter—filled the room, now tainted by the sharp tang of anger.
He remained still, his chest constricted, as the anger blazing in her eyes gave way to something fragile, something shattered. Without a word, she turned and disappeared into her bedroom, the door clicking shut behind her. Left alone, he cleaned the wall, his tears mingling with the streaks of yolk and tomato juice, his hands trembling uncontrollably.
He still loved her. On her good days, when she sang softly while stirring soup, or combed his hair with a gentleness that seemed almost foreign, she was his anchor. On her bad days, though, the storm inside her threatened to pull them both under. The duality of her love had shaped him, leaving him searching for stability in a world that seemed incapable of offering it.