The time and space stood still as they clung to each other, the world around them melting away into irrelevance by the hug so tight it's almost painful, but it's a pain that's laced with relief, joy and a deep abiding love. A crescendo of emotions. A whirlwind of feelings that had been caged for a decade, waiting for this one moment to finally break free.

It's a reunion of the two souls who thought they’d never find their way back to each other.

“How did you find me?” Luna asked softly.
She sat beside Alex, still held in his embrace, her head resting against his shoulder. She tilted her face upward, searching his.

“Your book,” Alex said.

“My book?” Luna frowned.

He smiled faintly. “The note at the end. The one you left for me.”

Luna’s breath caught.

“I have so many questions,” Alex continued, his voice tightening. “What happened after that night? How did you end up here—with him?”

“I want to answer everything,” Luna said slowly. “But I don’t remember the answers.” She paused before adding, “As for Malcolm… he’s been my only friend. We met two years ago and eventually got engaged. Our families are connected—friends, business partners.”

Her fingers curled Into the fabric of her dress.

“I think I was… adopted into this family somehow. I can’t say for sure. Maria Coelho—my mother—claims she gave birth to me.” Luna shook her head. “I don’t trust her. They care for me, I know that much… but they’re hiding something. I won’t know the truth until my memories return.”

“They will,” Alex said firmly. “I’ll help you. I promise.”

His jaw tightened. “There are too many unanswered questions. Too many people who need to be held accountable. And until your memories come back… justice can’t be done.”

Luna swallowed.

“Alex,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “What happened to my parents? And the people who killed them?”
Alex fell silent.

It was a night Alex never wanted to remember. Every time his mind strayed there, it dragged him back to a version of himself that was utterly helpless.

Even now, when he thought of that night, he could feel the ropes biting into his wrists and ankles, his mouth gagged and taped shut. He was still on his knees—forced to watch, unable to scream, unable to move.

He could still see Martha and David’s eyes.

Helpless. Broken.

Just like him, they were forced to witness their only precious daughter’s suffering. And after they had endured that nightmare—after every ounce of hope had been crushed—they were shot mercilessly.

Their cold, lifeless bodies bore no resemblance to the warm, loving people who had once welcomed him into their home with open arms, who had loved him as their own.

What haunted him most was the laughter.
The laughter of heartless men whose faces he didn’t even know.

“Your fathers shouldn’t have left the Brotherhood,” one of them had said, almost casually. “I feel bad for both of you. But a father’s debt must be repaid by his children, don’t you think?”

Their words—and their cruel amusement—still rang in Alex’s ears.

“Do you remember their faces?” Alex asked quietly.

“Not clearly,” Luna replied.

“How much do you remember?” he pressed.

“There were three of them at first,” she said slowly. “They were talking among themselves… then a fourth man came.” Her breathing faltered. “Then fire. I remember fire. After that… everything blurs.”

Alex nodded grimly. “Yes. There was a fire. The fourth man took you with him. Shortly after that, I fainted from the smoke.”

He exhaled, his voice heavy. “I woke up later in the hospital. Havildar D’Silva told me he found me unconscious on the front porch. When he returned to retrieve your parents’ bodies… there was nothing left. Just a burnt-down house.”

“Even the fire brigade said they found no one,” he continued. “No bodies. No survivors.”

“When I filed a complaint, the police searched for you—and for your parents’ remains. But nothing turned up. I was arrested as a suspect.” His lips curved bitterly. “Uncle D’Silva vouched for me. He told them I was a victim too.”

Alex looked away. “With no victims and no criminals to charge, the case was dismissed.”
A pause.

“Uncle D’Silva took me in after that,” he said softly. “That’s how I became Lexton D’Silva.”

Luna’s body went rigid.

For a moment, she didn’t breathe.
Her hands trembled in her lap, nails digging into her palms hard enough to draw blood, yet she felt nothing. The grief came first—heavy, suffocating—crushing her chest until every breath burned.

Then came the rage.
Hot. Violent. Coiled deep inside her like a living thing.

Her eyes filled, but no tears fell. She refused them. She had cried enough in life she could no longer remember. This pain didn’t want tears—it wanted  answers, justice.

When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried something sharp.

“They’re still alive,” she said. “The people who did this.”

She looked at Alex, her voice steady, terrifyingly calm.

A slow breath.

“I will find them.”

Her fingers curled into a fist.

“And when I do,” Luna whispered, “they won’t be begging for mercy—only for the chance to undo what they did.”

“Yes. We will,” Alex agreed.

His expression hardened. “Those people are closer than you think. I never stopped searching for them.”

He paused, choosing his words carefully. “Soon, I’ll grab the ear… and once you have the ear, you can reach the head.”

“But I need your cooperation,” he added. “Without your memories, they can declare you medically unfit and refuse to reopen the case. We’re dealing with the Brotherhood. Even those meant to serve justice are in their pockets.”

“You’re right,” Luna said quietly.

Before they could plan any further, the sound of approaching footsteps cut through the room, followed by a distant voice.

“Malcolm,” Luna whispered.

“Go. Take your seat,” Alex said under his breath. “It’s better if no one knows anything about us.”

The door flung open.

Malcolm’s face lit up when he saw Luna. “Are you done, my love? It’s almost time for your evening walk.”

“Yes,” Luna replied, offering a small, carefully measured smile.

Malcolm slipped an arm around her shoulders—possessive, deliberate. As they walked out, his gaze flicked back to Alex, the message unspoken but clear.

Alex didn’t react.
His face remained unreadable.

Whatever was real no longer mattered; what mattered was who controlled the story.