The Outcast's Rebirth

CHAPTER 43: Love And Loss

  

The evening sky had darkened into a shade of deep blue as Winston trudged along the narrow path that led to the cottage.

His steps were heavy, laden with exhaustion and a weight far greater than the physical. The cottage loomed ahead, its silhouette familiar and imposing, a place that once held warmth, now cold and desolate.

As he pushed open the door, the creak echoed in the stillness. The air inside was cool, and the room felt void of life.

It was a far cry from the memories that used to haunt this space—the time when Kyzzu and Amani lived here, filling it with their presence, or when his own parents had nurtured him within these very walls.

Back then, it was his sanctuary. But now, all it held were ghosts, memories of what once was and what had been lost.

Winston’s gaze drifted around the room, taking in the faded remnants of another life. Dust covered most surfaces, and a damp chill hung in the air. It was here, in this very room, that Kyzzu had been imprisoned, trapped by Winston’s selfishness, his need to possess.

Here, too, was where Kazi had been born, their son, though Kyzzu had never been the willing partner Winston had desperately wished him to be. Everything in this place reeked of the past—his past, Kyzzu’s suffering, and the broken remnants of love turned to obsession.

Slowly, Winston moved to the bed, its worn frame standing as a silent witness to everything that had transpired here.

His hand slid under the bed, his fingers searching for the loose floorboard that had been his secret for as long as he could remember. With a small tug, the wood gave way, revealing the hidden compartment beneath.

Inside was a small collection of wooden toys—carved animals, a little boat, a crude figure of a man—all the things his parents had made for him when he was a child. Winston stared at them, his chest tightening as memories rushed in.

His father’s hands, rough and calloused, carving the wood by the dim light of a lantern. His mother’s laughter, soft and warm, as she watched her son play with the toys they had made with so much love.

They had been poor, but never in spirit. They had given him everything, more than he deserved. He had been a difficult child—restless, stubborn—but they had loved him regardless, pouring every ounce of their being into his happiness. And he had failed them.

Winston’s hand trembled as he picked up the little wooden man. Fresh tears blurred his vision, his throat tightening with emotion he couldn’t contain. His parents had been taken from him by the plague, and even in their final days, they had kept him at a distance. Not out of cruelty, but because they had feared for his safety, for his life. They had died alone, without him by their side, and he hadn’t been able to save them.

A sob escaped him, low and guttural, as he clutched the toy to his chest. It was as though every loss, every failure, every moment of loneliness he had ever felt came crashing down on him all at once.

His parents were gone. Kyzzu—Kyzzu, who had endured so much at his hands—was slipping away too, ready to leave him for death. And Kazi, their son, would grow up in the shadow of all of this pain.

“Why does everyone I love leave me?” Winston whispered, his voice hoarse with grief. “Why am I always left alone?”

He crouched down on the cold floor, his body shaking with sobs. There was no one left to hear him, no one to comfort him. His parents, Kyzzu—they were all gone, or soon would be. And the emptiness that followed threatened to swallow him whole.