Richard stood in the dimly lit hallway, the old bulb above him humming with a soft, electric buzz.
The air carried a faint trace of lavender air freshener, layered over the lingering scent of furniture polish and dusty curtains.
In one corner, a worn umbrella stand still held the same battered umbrellas he remembered from childhood.
He slowed his breathing, listening intently for any sign of movement upstairs.
Part of him hoped the place was empty—he needed more time to gather his thoughts before facing them. But another part, the part that loathed unanswered questions, wanted to see them now. To know how life had treated his family in his absence.
He edged forward, feeling the worn carpet beneath his boots.
How many times had he raced along this hall as a boy, only to be scolded by his mother for tracking mud in from the street?
A pang of bittersweet nostalgia tightened in his chest. He rested a hand on the banister, the wood smooth beneath his fingertips. If they moved out, who lives here now?
And why did it still look… lived in?
A faint thud sounded from upstairs.
Richard froze, breath catching in his throat.
The air thickened with anticipation, as though the house itself had drawn a breath. For a fleeting moment, he considered slipping back out into the rain—too many ghosts lurked here.
But the question of who had closed that door upstairs pressed him on.
He climbed the steps slowly, forcing each footfall to remain steady. Halfway up, the floorboards creaked overhead.
Light spilled into the landing from a partially open door. He nudged it wider.
Inside, a small lamp on a bedside table cast a pool of golden light over pale wallpaper.
Photographs—framed in neat rows—lined the wall beside a dresser.
They looked new.
At first glance, they were typical family shots—birthdays, outings, posed smiles. But then Richard's heart stopped.
One frame held an image of his mother, father, and sister standing in front of a polished memorial statue.
A statue of Astralis.
The date scrawled at the bottom read 2010.
A hoarse voice broke the silence.
"Richard…?"
He turned.
Standing in the doorway behind him, hair streaked with grey—wasn't it black?—at the temples, was his father, Andrew Blackwood.
His once-broad shoulders seemed narrower, as though the weight of the years had ground him down. Yet the shock on his face flared with a vitality Richard barely recognised.
Time halted.
They stared at one another for what felt like an eternity.
Andrew's voice trembled when he spoke again.
"How… how can this be?"
Richard swallowed hard.
"Dad." His voice came out raspy, an awkward attempt at normality. "I—I needed to come home."
Andrew took a step forward, arms half-raised, as though torn between the impulse to embrace his son or recoil in disbelief.
He settled for gripping Richard's shoulders, hands trembling.
His gaze searched Richard's face—lingering on the jagged scar above his eyebrow, the faint lines battle and worry had etched into his features.
"You look the same," Andrew murmured.
A wave of emotion threatened to choke Richard, but he forced it down, carefully clasping his father's arm.
Light flicked on in another room down the hall.
Footsteps approached swiftly, accompanied by a voice he never thought he'd hear again.
"Andrew, is everything alright?"
His mother, Margaret Blackwood, appeared at the threshold, a dressing gown hastily pulled over her nightdress.
The instant she saw him, her face transformed—shock, disbelief, then something rawer, more fragile.
She covered her mouth with one hand, eyes wide.
"Richard?" she whispered, voice cracking.
And then, as though some final barrier had shattered, she rushed forward, pulling him into a fierce embrace.
He felt her sobs before he heard them.
She clung to him, half-laughing, half-crying.
He closed his eyes, letting the moment consume him.
The scent of lavender shampoo. The warmth of her arms.
For a breath, he was a child again, when all the world's ills could be banished by a mother's hug.
Life was so much simpler back then… or was it? Life always has a way of feeling hard, no matter the time.
Andrew hovered close, his hand resting lightly on Richard's shoulder, as though afraid that letting go would mean losing him again.
When Margaret finally pulled back, cheeks damp with tears, she cupped Richard's face in both hands.
"My boy… we thought—unlike everyone else—that you were dead."
Richard exhaled shakily.
"I almost was. I… I can't explain it all right now. But that's why I disappeared. And now, I'm here."
Andrew cleared his throat, voice thick with emotion.
"Come downstairs, son. Let's sit."
They guided him into the living room, flicking on lamps as they went.
The space looked both familiar and new—updated furniture, but the same family portrait still hung above the mantel.
Richard lingered on the photo. He couldn't have been more than fifteen when it was taken.
That was fifteen years ago.
Margaret disappeared into the kitchen, returning moments later with mugs of tea.
She set them down with shaking hands. "You'll need something warm," she murmured, attempting a smile. "You always liked Earl Grey, right?"
Richard nodded, throat too tight for words.
The warmth of the cup between his palms grounded him.
His father studied him intently. "You don't have to tell us everything tonight. But… can you tell us anything? Where you've been? How you survived?"
Richard hesitated, gaze dropping to his tea.
The easy answer would be a lie.
He didn't want to lie—not now.
"I was in Cyprus, during the Paphos mission. You probably remember it—it was all over the news." He exhaled. "The monster I faced that day… it was different. It—"
He splayed a hand over his chest, feeling the phantom ache. "It killed me. Or so I thought."
Silence thickened the air.
His mother set her cup down with unsteady fingers, eyes glistening. "But you came back. How?"
"I don't fully understand," Richard admitted. "I woke up… and a decade had passed. The city was rebuilt. Everyone had moved on. And there's—" He clenched his jaw. "There's someone else pretending to be Astralis."
Andrew's expression darkened.
"We didn't know," he said slowly. "The Association never told anyone. Since they didn't know who was under the mask, they weren't aware of us. They simply announced you were missing in action… and then, within a few months, a new Astralis appeared, claiming to be you."
Margaret's hands trembled.
"We knew it wasn't you," she whispered. "But we had no way to prove it. When we tried to question it, the Association… they made it clear we should stay quiet."
Andrew's jaw tightened. "They didn't threaten us outright. But the suggestion was there. Keep quiet, or we'd lose everything."
Richard's pulse pounded.
Betrayal burned through him all over again.
"And Meredith?" he asked softly.
Margaret inhaled shakily. "She left years ago. She's with the Guild of Mages now, working on a research project. She visits, but… we never told her our suspicions. We didn't want her in danger."
Richard nodded, the weight of it all pressing down on him.
Andrew's grip tightened on his forearm. "Son, I don't know what's happened to you, but if the Hunter Association realises you're alive… I don't know what they'll do."
Richard set his cup down, eyes glinting.
"They don't know. No one will find out," he said, though his voice wavered slightly.
His parents exchanged a worried glance.
The rain pattered against the windows.
The old grandfather clock in the hallway chimed once, low and sonorous.
Margaret wrapped her arms around him again, whispering, "We're just glad you're here."
Richard let his eyes close, just for a moment.
"I'm sorry," he murmured. "For everything. But I promise… I'm going to make this right."
And for now, that would have to be enough.