Stuck with the enemy

Chapter 46: Starting Fresh

Aras's Story

We step closer to the front door, each step slower than the last. The house looms before us, both familiar and foreign, like a photograph that's faded with time but still holds its meaning. Deniz walks beside me, clutching the keys so tightly her knuckles are white. Jacob follows behind, uncharacteristically quiet.

The house looks just as it did when we left, though it wears the weight of years. The paint is chipped, the garden overgrown, but I can still see it—the life it once held, the laughter it once echoed. This was our house, stolen from us, and now we're here, back at the threshold.

My heart pounds in my chest as I reach out to touch the doorframe. Memories flood my mind, vivid and relentless. I can almost see my sixteen-year-old self sitting on the porch with Deniz at my feet, her tiny fingers gripping my arm as she begged me to tell her a story. The memory makes my throat tighten.

"Aras, breathe," Alp's voice cuts through the chaos in my head. My wolf's tone is steady, grounding. "This is a moment you've fought for. Don't let the past drown it."

"I'm trying," I reply silently, though my voice wavers even in my mind.

Deniz stops just shy of the door, her eyes wide and brimming with tears she won't let fall. Jacob, sensing her hesitation, places a hand on her shoulder.

"You okay?" he asks gently, his usual humor replaced by genuine concern.

She nods but doesn't move. I take the keys from her trembling hand and glance at her. "Let's do this together," I say, my voice firmer than I feel.

The key slides into the lock with a satisfying click, and as the door creaks open, the scent of the house rushes out to meet us. It's a mix of dust and time, but beneath it, I catch something else—faint but unmistakable. Lavender and leather. My mother's perfume, my father's chair. My knees nearly give out.

I step inside first, the wooden floor groaning under my weight. Deniz follows closely, her breath hitching as her gaze darts around the room. Jacob stays near the door, his presence grounding but unobtrusive.

The living room is exactly as I remember it. The couch, though faded and dusty, still sits where we left it. The old bookshelf, built by my father's hands, is still standing, its shelves crammed with books and trinkets. I can almost hear his deep voice telling us to be careful not to knock it over.

My feet carry me to the fireplace mantle, where framed photos remain untouched. My fingers tremble as I pick one up. It's the four of us—Mom, Dad, Deniz, and me. She's six in the photo, holding up a messy drawing with a grin so wide it crinkles her nose. I stand awkwardly behind her, trying to look cool in my oversized jacket.

"They kept it all," I whisper, my voice barely audible.

"This is home," Alp murmurs. "Let yourself feel it, Aras. They would've wanted you to."

Deniz's Story

The house feels both too small and too big all at once. Every corner holds a memory, every creak of the floorboards feels like a whisper from the past. My chest is so tight it's hard to breathe, but I can't let it show. Not here. Not now.

I drift toward the kitchen without thinking, my fingers trailing along the walls as I go. The table is still there—the one where I spent countless afternoons drawing while Mom cooked. My fingertips brush the surface, and for a moment, it's like I'm six again, the smell of her soup filling the air.

"Deniz, honey, come taste this," her voice echoes in my mind, warm and full of love. I close my eyes, clinging to the memory.

"Derya," I whisper to my wolf, desperate for her calm presence. "Do you feel it? Do you feel them here?"

"I do," Derya replies, her tone soft and steady. "They're everywhere in this house. It's like they never left."

Tears sting the corners of my eyes, but I blink them away. I grip the counter to steady myself, drawing deep breaths to keep from falling apart.

"Hey," Jacob's voice breaks through my thoughts, gentle but firm. I turn to see him leaning against the doorway, his arms crossed. "You okay?"

I nod quickly, though I can't quite meet his gaze. "Just... memories," I say, forcing a smile.

He steps closer, his usual smirk replaced by something softer. "It's a lot, huh?"

I nod again, biting my lip. "I keep expecting them to walk in, like none of this ever happened."

Jacob places a hand on my shoulder, squeezing lightly. "They'd be proud of you, Deniz. You know that, right?"

His words make my chest tighten further, but this time it's not just grief—it's gratitude. I place my hand over his, giving it a small squeeze.

"Thanks," I whisper, my voice barely audible.

Jacob's Story

I've never seen them like this. Aras, the rock of our group, looks like he's holding himself together with sheer willpower. Deniz, usually so composed, is teetering on the edge of breaking. I stay near the doorway, watching them move through the house like they're stepping through a dream—fragile and beautiful and heartbreaking all at once.

This place means everything to them. I've heard the stories, seen the longing in their eyes whenever they talked about it. But being here, seeing them in the space they lost, makes it all so much more real.

Aras stands by the fireplace, staring at an old photo like it holds the answers to every question he's ever asked. Deniz is in the kitchen, her hands gripping the counter like it's the only thing keeping her upright. And me? I feel like an intruder in their memories, a spectator in a play that isn't mine.

But that's okay. I don't need to be part of this moment. My job is to be here when they need me.

I step into the kitchen, leaning casually against the doorframe. "Hey," I say, keeping my tone light but steady. "You okay in there?"

Deniz turns to me, her eyes glassy but determined. "Yeah," she says, though her voice wobbles. "Just... memories."

I nod, offering a small smile. "This place has a lot of those, doesn't it?"

She exhales shakily, her lips curving into a faint smile. "Yeah. It does."

We move through the house together, room by room, each space stirring a flood of memories. In the living room, Aras points to the old couch with a half-smile.

"That's where Mom made us sit when we fought," he says, his voice tinged with nostalgia. "She'd make us hold hands until we apologized."

Deniz laughs softly, the sound bittersweet. "You always apologized first. I think you just hated holding my hand."

He smirks, ruffling her hair as they move toward the stairs.

The bedrooms upstairs are the hardest. Deniz hesitates at the door to her old room, her hand hovering over the knob. When she finally opens it, the sight of the pink walls and tiny bed makes her breath hitch.

"This was my world," she whispers, stepping inside. "I used to think it was the safest place in the universe."

Aras doesn't say anything, but the look on his face speaks volumes. He places a hand on her shoulder, and for a moment, they just stand there, lost in their shared memories.

Watching them rediscover their home is both heartbreaking and inspiring. They've been through so much, but here they are, standing in the place that shaped them, reclaiming it as their own.

"Hey," I say finally, breaking the silence as we gather back in the living room. "You guys ready to make some new memories?"

Deniz looks at me, her eyes still glistening but filled with determination. "Yeah," she says softly. "We are."

Aras nods, his hand resting on her shoulder. "Let's start fresh," he says, his voice steady.