“Ahem.”

Her throat clears quietly, but the sound carries. He knows that sound. It’s never casual.

“I’ll be leaving again,” she says at last, her voice careful. “Another business trip. Unfortunately. "

Again!?

Livio almost says it out loud. Instead, his mind races.

She just got back—three days ago, tops. The last trip kept her away for weeks. Before that? Longer. He can still remember how quiet the house became when she was gone. How cold. Not the kind of cold that comes from snow piling up outside the windows. A different kind.

A kind that wraps around your skin and stays there.

“How long is 'a while'?” Livio asks, trying to sound casual. Curious, not needy.

She walks over without answering right away. Then, with a smile too soft to be real, she cups his face in her hand.

“I’m not sure, sweetheart,” she says gently, brushing her thumb beneath his eye to adjust his glasses. “I’ll have to see what they say.”

They. Always they. She never gives him names, never specifics. Just they—like that's all he needs to know.

Livio decided not to push it. He never does.

A silence settles in, slow and sticky. Her hand lingers on his cheek a heartbeat too long before she drops it, stepping back.

Then she speaks again.

“I made sure Yaga prepared your meals ahead of time,” she says. “All your favorites. You won’t even notice we're gone.”

A small smile. Perfect.

He doesn't believe her, not really.

“Don’t forget your assignments,” his mother says, “You know I’ll be checking them when I get back.”

...He nodded once. She always does.

“And clean your room. Every day. Even though Yaga will be accompanying me, it’ll be the first thing I see when I return.”

......He nodded again. A little quicker this time.

“And no staying up past midnight. I mean it. Just because I’m not here doesn’t mean bedtime is optional.”

..........He nodded again, almost mechanically now. Faster. Maybe if he nods fast enough, she’ll think she already said the rest.

"And don’t-"

 "Evelyn."

Yaga’s voice cuts his mother off.

He’s standing in the doorway, back straight, hands folded behind him like the butler in every movie ever—but a little taller, a little sharper, and way more intimidating.

Livio’s mom turns slightly, her mouth still half-open with some extra thing she was about to add.  Maybe something about the laundry this time.

But she doesn’t say it. She just breathes out.

Yaga remains still, but his presence fills the doorway like a large statue. Not in a threatening way—just... there. 

He looks exactly the same as always: the sharp jaw, the crooked nose, the intense red eyes that never seem to blink too long. There’s always some stubble along his chin, jaw, and upper lip, just enough to make him look like he hasn’t slept in a few days—but in a deliberate way. His hair still looks like it lost a fight with a pair of scissors—shaved close on one side, wild and pointed on the other. Technically a mullet, but he made it work.

Yaga’s tall—probably around 6 '3, if Livio had to guess. His frame is all muscle, broader than it seems at first glance, with a small chest but wide shoulders. Muscles ripple under his jacket, giving the impression of someone who could suplex a bear and still pour tea without spilling a drop.

Standing beside his mom, they make a weird pair. She’s smaller, lean, sharp like a statue. He’s broader, steady, more like the marble pedestal she’d be displayed on in a museum.

“We’re already off-schedule,” Yaga says at last, each word sounding like it was dragged out of him.

He still hasn’t looked at Livio.

His mother sighs. 

She hugs Livio while he’s still sitting, catching him by surprise.

He blinks. She's not usually one for surprise gestures.

"Look out there, Livio."

She turns his head toward the wide window overlooking the land beyond his home.

The trees stretch out like a crown around your quiet hilltop. The last of winter’s snow clings to shaded patches of earth, while green grass peeks through. The sun filters down in beams, catching in the dew and lingering frost. It looks quite pretty.

“Do you see how beautiful it is? This world of ours.”

Livio nods slowly. It's hard not to.

“The way the sun kisses the trees as if it missed them while it hid behind the clouds… the hush of the forest holding its breath before spring bursts into full bloom… even the birds are singing.”

She kneels beside him, her voice soft but certain. 

“This is peace, Livio. True peace. And we—children of this world—carry a sacred duty to protect it. Every country, every ocean, every corner of this Earth.”

Her fingers tighten around his, a quiet, grounding pressure.

“Without peace… terrible things can happen. Things far worse than the battles we fight to preserve it.”

She tilts her head slightly, eyes glinting with both resolve and something softer, almost a hint of sorrow.

“That’s why… sometimes certain things must be done. Hard things. Even things we might not understand right away—all for the sake of peace.”

There's silence then.

Not empty. 

Just… full. With meaning.

“Do you understand, child?”

Livio wanted to say yes. Livio wants to believe he does. But something about the way she’s looking at him makes his throat tighten.

“...Mhm.”

She lets go, then gently turns him toward her—so he's staring directly into her eyes.

Grey. Like cloud-covered skies.

“Good.”

Her smile is faint, but real this time.

“When it comes down to it… I know you’ll make the right choice.”

She stands now. And for a moment, she seems taller than Yaga. Taller than the house. Taller than anything.

“Because…”

The wind outside picks up, brushing against the window. It carries the scent of thawing earth, and distant blossoms just starting to bloom.

“You’re special, my little warrior. I know you’re going to change the world.”

"Ev—" Yaga starts, but Livio’s mom cuts him off right away.

"Yeah, I’m going," she snaps, clearly tired of him interrupting.

She turns her back to Livio, heading straight for the door. Her heels echo through the study—sharp, steady clicks across the floor.

Yaga doesn’t follow her at first.

Instead, he just stands there. Then his eyes finally meet Livio.

He hadn’t realized it until now, but he hasn’t looked at Livio once since he walked into the room.

And now that he does, it feels... heavy. Like he’s deciding something.

He looks over at his mother—still walking, almost to the door. Then back at Livio.

Yaga’s jaw tightens.

In the end, he doesn’t say anything. He turns and follows her out.

The double doors creak as they close behind them, the sound dragging out longer than it should.

Livio sat there for a second, stuck in place.

Then he jumped up from the chair, almost knocking over a stack of books in his rush. One slips under his foot and he stumbles, catching himself on the desk.

“Seriously?” he mutters, kicking it aside.

Livio slips out through the doors of the study and jog down the hall, trying to catch up before they disappear.

His socks slide a little on the polished wood as he moves past the old portraits lining the walls in the hallways—his grandfather’s stern, dark-skinned face, his mother’s younger smile, that painting of Mr.Yaga  in a chicken suit that’s always made Livio feel uncomfortable.

        He rounded the corner, past the living room with its tall-backed chairs and half-drunk tea tray, then into the wide foyer. The light from outside pours in through the stained-glass windows, painting the floor in patches of color.

By the time Livio reaches the front door, his mother and Mr. Yaga are already stepping through it. She glances back briefly, just as they’re about to close it.

“Y-you’ll be back soon, right?” he asks, trying to sound casual.

His  mother smiles, soft, familiar. Like always.

“Of course, Livio.”

“I’ll be watching… from afar. So… don’t forget…what comes next.”

The door shuts with a solid, final thud.

Livio lingered there for a second, staring at the handle. Something about that goodbye... felt off. But maybe that’s just Livio overthinking things again.

Then again, overthinking is kind of Livio’s thing.

It’s always been like that. He notices things—small things. He doesn't know where it came from—maybe it’s just what happens when your whole world is two people and a thousand fictional ones. When the only real conversations you've had outside of dinner are with detectives in noir books, courtroom dramas, or politicians giving speeches through your bedroom TV. 

His brain never really shuts up. It’s always rewinding, replaying, zooming in.  Picking up things he doesn't remember seeing. He once figured out his mother was planning his birthday surprise a full week in advance just by how she rearranged the spice rack. Mr. Yaga hated that one.

His mother calls it a gift. Mr. Yaga called it "stupid." He always has such a way with words.

Either way, it’s always been there. Like a little second heartbeat pulsing beneath your thoughts—pulling you toward the truth whether you wanted it or not.

Still, the house feels a little too quiet now. Too still.

He rubs the back of his neck and turns around, walking back through the foyer. His footsteps echo more than usual. The grandfather clock ticks steadily by the stairs, the fireplace in the living room is dark and cold.

Oh well. She'll be back soon., Livio thought.

His mom’s always away on business trips, and as much as he loves her, getting up right now sounds like a terrible idea. The only thing she’s ever told him about her job is that she works for the president. What was his name again… oh, right — Bison Buford, the 42nd President of the United States.

It always struck Livio as strange. What kind of government job needs that many business trips? Definitely not Secret Service. But whatever.

He glances back at his desk, the open textbook waiting.

Still… something about how quickly she left this time feels off. 

At least he doesn't have to do homework anymore.

Livio is starting to feel hungry, and sure—she did say she left his meals in the fridge—but he’s craving something tastier. Like that leftover pizza from movie night a few days ago.

Pizza. Mmm. Yummers.

Livio gets up, and slips out through the doors of the study and walks down the hall.

His socks slide a little on the polished wood as he moves past the old portraits lining the walls in the hallways—his grandfather’s stern, dark-skinned face, his mother’s younger smile, that painting of Mr. Yaga in a chicken suit that’s always made him feel uncomfortable.

Livio round the corner, past the living room with its tall-backed chairs and half-drunk tea tray, then into the wide foyer. The light from outside pours in through the stained-glass windows, painting the floor in patches of color.

He heads toward the kitchen, past the hallway lined with bookshelves and the piano he never quite learned to play. The marble tiles are chilly under his feet as you step into the kitchen and tug open the fridge.

Leftover pizza. Jackpot.

Livio grabs a slice and plops it on a plate, tossing it into the microwave. The whir of the machine fills the silence.

Whatever this trip is about, they’ve probably handled worse. Sure, Livio’s mom took Mr. Yaga this time, but maybe she just wanted company.

She’ll be back. 

She always is. 

Right?

They found her body three days later.

Livio hadn’t understood what that meant at first—not when the police knocked, not when they said his name, not even when they told him that he had to come with them.

They didn’t explain. Just said it was about his mother, and that it was important.

Livio had never left the house before. Not once. Not since he was born.

The world outside had felt like something out of a picture book—too bright, too large, too loud. Buildings loomed. Cars blurred past. Trees swayed in ways that unsettled him. But none of it had mattered.

Livio’s thoughts kept circling the same question: 

Where is she? Why didn’t she come back?

The officers hadn’t said much. They weren’t cold, just... distant. Focused. One had driven. The other sat in silence, occasionally glancing at him like he wanted to say something—but didn’t.

The hospital had been white and quiet, with floors that shone under the fluorescent lights. The smell—clean but chemical—clung to everything.

Livio has been led through automatic doors, into an elevator, and down a long hallway. At some point, a woman in scrubs met him. Her voice was gentle. Her eyes looked tired, but kind.

"Thank you, officers. I’ll take it from here."

Something on her right shoulder caught the light.

The officers exchanged a glance and nodded. One gave his shoulder a small, awkward pat before they turned to wait at the end of the corridor.

The nurse had offered him a soft look. She hadn’t asked if he was okay.

Maybe she had already known.

“Come with me,” she said.

The hallway had seemed to stretch longer than it should’ve. The walls were lined with soft lights and numbered doors. Livio had tried to count them, tried to distract himself, but nothing worked.

"Where’s my mom?" Livio had finally asked.

The nurse slowed slightly, but hadn’t answered at first. Not because she was avoiding him, but because she didn’t seem to know how to begin.

"She’s... here," she said. "Just up ahead."

The door at the end of the hall had a number he didn’t recognize, but it pressed itself into his memory all the same.

The nurse opened it carefully. A cool light spilled out into the corridor.

 Wait a second.

Across from the door, slumped in one of the waiting chairs, sat Mr. Yaga. You almost didn’t recognize him. His coat was rumpled, his shirt half-untucked. A shadow of stubble clung to his face, and his hair, usually combed back with strict precision, hung loose around his face. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

Yaga didn’t move at first. Just looked up at Livio. There was something in his eyes—a quiet, distant sadness. Was it sadness? He didn't know the word for it.

Yaga stood without a word and pulled Libio into a hug.

There was no explanation, no comforting phrase. Just the steady pressure of Yaga’s arms around him, and the faint scent of smoke and old cologne clinging to his coat. He held Livio for a long time.

Then, slowly, he let go. He gave his shoulder a small squeeze, his hand lingering for a moment, and sat back down without a sound.

The nurse stood silently nearby, giving Livio space. After a pause, she met his eyes and nodded gently. “You can go in when you’re ready,” she said.

Inside: a small, quiet room. A hospital bed in the center. Curtains pulled back to let gray afternoon light spill in. Machines lined one side of the room, blinking and humming, but there was no steady beep.

There—lying beneath the thin hospital sheets—was a woman.

She looked peaceful, as though she were only asleep. But the silence in the machines said otherwise. There was no heart monitor. No oxygen line. Just stillness.

Livio froze.

It was her.

His mother.