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His mother sat near the window.

She looked up.

Stopped breathing. So did he.

For one long moment, nobody moved.

Then she whispered, “Veyr?”

That was all.

His face changed.

Every wall I had watched him hold through gunfire, betrayal, blood loss, and fear simply disappeared.

His mother crossed the room and touched his face with both hands.

He closed his eyes.

She said his name again, softer this time, like she needed to prove she still remembered how.

“Veyr.”

He covered one of her hands with his.

“I’m here.”

She cried then.

So did his sister, although hers came with anger.

She hit him once in the chest. Not hard.

He had winced.

I almost intervened. Decided against it.

“Eight years,” she said.

“I know.”

“You let us think you were dead.”

“Yes.”

“I hate you.”

His face tightened. “I know.”

Then she threw her arms around him.

Veyr held her like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to.

She solved that by squeezing harder.

He gave in.

Later, after tears turned into anger and anger into questions, his sister introduced the children.