Chapter 7: The Living Fire
The Haze residence stands on a private island several kilometres from the mainland, reached by a guarded bridge and a private ferry that operates according to a schedule known only to the family. Unlike the cold elegance of the Astar mansion, this house was built to be lived in. Music drifts through its open corridors, sunlight pours through the glass walls, and long terraces overlook the ocean. Nothing about the place feels designed merely to impress visitors. It has the comfort of a home that has grown alongside the people living in it.
Water runs through narrow stone channels in the gardens, creating a gentle sound that blends with the distant waves. Flowers grow along the paths, some carefully arranged by professional gardeners and others allowed to spread wherever they please. The trees are old enough to have watched three generations of Hazes cross the lawns, and their branches stretch over benches where nobody has ever been told not to sit. Even the furniture outside looks as though someone left it there after a long conversation and forgot to bring it back inside.
Security watches the grounds without making a show of it. Guards move between buildings, cameras remain hidden among the architecture, and staff greet one another in the covered walkways as they carry on with their daily work. The island is protected, but the protection does not dominate its atmosphere. The Astar estate was designed to keep the world at a distance. This one allows the world in, provided it obeys the rules.
On the eastern side of the residence, a balcony looks directly over the ocean. The morning wind moves through its open space, carrying the smell of salt and the faint sound of waves breaking against the rocks below. I have been standing there for quite some time, watching the same video for the nineteenth time.
The clip is less than two minutes long. A black car pulls up at the gates of Apex University, a door opens, and a boy in a navy blazer steps out into a wall of phones. He adjusts his collar and glances towards the entrance, looking as though the building might ask him a question he hasn't studied for. Behind him, a girl nearly drops her phone while trying to record him. He reaches out and catches it before it hits the ground, and the camera lurches towards the pavement. The recording ends with a blurred image and somebody laughing in the background.
I laughed the first time I watched it. I laughed again when I replayed it, and I am still smiling now. Six years have passed, and he still cannot walk past something falling without trying to catch it.
I scroll back to the beginning and play it again, paying less attention to his face and more to his hands. They look almost exactly as I remember them. He holds the strap of his bag too tightly, as though even that ordinary object might leave him if he doesn't keep a firm grip on it. I remember those hands holding a screwdriver, turning a small metal part over and over while he tried to understand why something had stopped working.
The ocean stretches beneath the balcony, silver where the morning sun touches it. Boats leave thin lines across the water, and the distant coastline is visible through the haze. I haven't looked at any of it properly. My attention keeps returning to the screen.
"You've been watching that all morning."
My mother's voice comes from the doorway. I don't turn around immediately, because I already know what she is going to say.
"Everyone keeps talking about it."
"That explains why you've replayed it at least fifteen times?"
"Eighteen."
"Nineteen. I counted from the hall."
I roll my eyes and put the tablet down on the table. There is no point arguing with her. Isabella Haze built half the world's entertainment industry by understanding what people think, what they hide, and what they are trying not to say, and I have never managed to conceal anything from her when we are standing in the same room.
She steps onto the balcony and places her cup of tea beside mine. Her dress is light, her hair falls over one shoulder, and there is nothing particularly formal about her appearance. She has already attended two meetings and read four reports before nine o'clock, yet she looks as though she has spent the entire morning wandering through the gardens. My mother can move between discussions with people who control entire industries and an ordinary conversation with me without letting either part of her life overwhelm the other.
She leans against the railing and looks towards the water. "How long has it been?"
She doesn't say his name. She doesn't need to.
"Almost six years."
The words sound longer when spoken aloud. In that time I have lived in four countries, completed two schools, attended formal dinners, and met people whose names appear regularly in newspapers. I know which fork to use at a table for sixty, how to refuse a minister without directly saying no, and how to recognize when someone is being polite because they want something. Yet through all those years, a boy who smiled too easily and worried too much about everyone around him remained somewhere at the back of my mind. I never made a habit of speaking about him. Some memories don't need constant attention to remain important.
"You missed him," my mother says.
I look towards the ocean rather than at her. "Yes."
She doesn't ask me to explain. She has never been the kind of mother who pulls words out of me just because she wants to hear them. If I want to talk, I talk, and if I don't, more questions only make me stubborn. She understood that when I was four, and she hasn't forgotten it.
After a sip of tea, she rests her arms on the railing beside me. "Do you remember the first time you met him?"
"Unfortunately."
"Unfortunately?"
"He was annoying." I pick at a loose thread on my sleeve. "He kept asking whether I was okay, even after I told him I was fine."
"Perhaps he didn't believe you."
"He shouldn't have. I wasn't fine."
A quiet laugh escapes her. I try to keep my expression neutral, but the corner of my mouth rises anyway. It is strange how easily one question can take me back to a place I haven't thought about in years.
I remember the garden wall, the heat of the afternoon, and the way I was trying desperately not to cry in front of people who would have enjoyed seeing it. I was nine, perhaps ten. It was one of those long school afternoons when the sun seemed fixed above the walls and nobody was allowed to leave until the scheduled time. I was sitting against the wall with my knees pulled towards my chest and my back turned to a group of children who had spent most of the morning making my life difficult.
It had started as teasing. They made remarks about my temper, my father's name, and the way I refused to let anyone tell me what to do. I answered them because remaining silent felt worse, and that was accurately what they wanted. Every response gave them another reason to continue. They understood that making me angry was entertaining, and I understood that showing them how much they had succeeded would only encourage them.
By the time they finally wandered away, I was angry enough to throw a chair through a window. I sat on the ground, looked at my shoes, and tried to make my face completely unaffected. My hands were clenched, my throat hurt, and I was fighting the uncomfortable feeling behind my eyes. A pair of sandals stopped a few metres away.
"Are you hurt?"
I looked up. A small boy stood there, all elbows and slightly untidy clothes, holding something in both hands. "No."
"Then why are you sitting here?"
"Because I want to."
"Okay." He turned and started walking.
I stared at him. That was not how I expected the conversation to go. I had wanted him to ask again, perhaps to insist that something was wrong, but he had accepted my answer and decided to leave. Somehow that made me even more irritated.
"Where are you going?"
"Home."
"Then go."
He nodded and took another step. "Wait!" I said, and he stopped. I had no idea what I wanted him to do. I only knew I didn't want him to leave yet, and I would rather have swallowed the garden wall than admit that to a stranger.
He looked back with a slightly confused expression, then walked over and sat on the wall a little distance from me. He didn't ask another question. He lowered his eyes to the object he was carrying, a small mechanical toy car made of tin, with one wheel hanging awkwardly from its axle. He turned it over in his hands and frowned at it with the seriousness of someone examining a complicated machine.
For several minutes neither of us spoke. I watched him push the wheel back into place, examine the axle, and turn the toy around as though approaching it from another direction might reveal a solution. His expression grew more serious, which seemed ridiculous considering how small the toy was.
"Why are you here?" I finally asked.
"You asked me to wait."
"Before that."
"You looked upset. So I thought you might not want to be alone."
I had nothing to say to that. I looked at the ground and tried to breathe normally. He hadn't asked who had upset me, what had happened, or whether I wanted him to do something about it. He had simply decided that sitting nearby might be useful.
After a while he held out the car. "Do you want to see?"
"No. I don't know anything about fixing it."
"Okay."
He went back to the wheel. I watched him for another minute before curiosity became stronger than my determination to be difficult.
"Let me see."
He handed it over without hesitation. I turned the little car around and pressed the wheel gently, and the axle was bent so badly that it refused to sit straight no matter how I moved it. "What happened to it?"
"The wheel came off."
"Obviously."
"I know."
"Then why are you showing me?"
"I thought you might want to help."
It was such an ordinary thing to ask that I almost laughed. He wasn't trying to convince me the children had been wrong, or telling me to stop being angry, or pretending the afternoon had been wonderful. He had simply given me something to do with my hands.
"I don't know how."
"Neither do I yet."
"Then how are you going to fix it?"
"I'm trying to find out."
I laughed before I could stop myself. It came out louder than I expected, and the boy looked up with a grin as though I had handed him something far more valuable than a repaired toy. We spent the next several minutes trying different ways to straighten the axle. Each attempt made the situation worse, and eventually the wheel came off completely.
By the time the bell rang, the little car was in worse condition than when we had started, but I had forgotten most of what I'd been angry about. We never discussed the children, and he never asked me to explain why I had been sitting alone. We simply went back to our separate places when it was time to leave. I didn't understand it then, but I remembered that afternoon long after many other childhood memories had faded.
"You're smiling again," my mother says.
I blink and return to the balcony. The tablet is still on the table, and the morning wind has moved a few loose strands of hair across my face. "I remembered something."
"Something good?"
"Mostly. He sat with me for nearly an hour because I was angry at some children. He tried to repair a broken toy the whole time, but he couldn't fix it."
"Did he ever?"
"No. He worsened it."
We both laugh, and she lets the moment settle before asking another question. "Does he remember it?"
"He remembers. He knew me on the phone, and I didn't tell him who it was." I pull my sleeve down over my wrist. "He said my name before I said anything. He even remembered how I laugh."
"That must have made you happy."
"It did."
The answer comes out before I can soften it or pretend it means less than it does. My mother studies me for a moment, and I turn my attention to the tablet to avoid her eyes. I have watched her read a minister's expression across a crowded room, and she doesn't need much time to understand what someone is feeling.
"Have you spoken to him again?"
"Yesterday. For almost an hour."
"You could have told me."
"I didn't think you were interested."
"A mother is permitted to be interested in her daughter's life."
"You're interested in everyone's life."
"Occupational hazard."
I laugh softly. Before she can answer, the tablet chimes against the table. I glance at the screen, expecting an ordinary notification, but several alerts arrive almost at once. Three more appear before I can open the first.
My smile fades as I read. The university video has spread beyond Apex. Someone has added music to it, another person has slowed down the moment when Soren catches the girl's phone, and several accounts are sharing different versions of the same recording. One post places the clip beside photographs of Selen Astar in a dark suit, with a black car and a line of security behind her. A title runs across the images.
The ice goddess's mystery brother.
I read the first few paragraphs of an article before closing it. The writer has taken a brief university arrival and built an entire story around it. There are assumptions about Soren's family, his relationship with Selen, and the reason he has suddenly attracted attention. Most of the information is incomplete, and some of it is speculation presented as if someone had confirmed it.
"They've already started," I say.
"Started what?"
"Turning him into a story."
"That is what they do."
"They don't even know him."
"That rarely stops them." She sets her cup down and moves closer to look at the tablet. I scroll through the posts, noticing how quickly the comments have changed. Some people are curious, some are making jokes, and others have already decided they understand his entire personality from a few seconds of footage.
"Are you worried about him?" she asks.
"I don't like how they're talking about him."
"That isn't quite the same thing."
"Maybe it is."
She doesn't push me to explain. I return to the video and pause it at a frame where Soren is half turned towards someone outside the camera's view. His expression is familiar: polite, slightly uncomfortable, and caught somewhere between wanting to help and wishing nobody had noticed him doing it.
"Can they find out everything about him?"
"Not everything."
"But they can try. That's irritating."
"I can discourage irresponsible reporting where our organization has influence," she says carefully. "I can't control every publication, and I won't interfere with another family's arrangements without understanding the situation. Soren should be the one who decides how much of his life gets shared."
"Exactly."
She tilts her head. "You sound very certain."
"Because he never wanted attention."
"People change."
"He hasn't."
"You've spoken to him twice after six years."
"Twice."
"My mistake." She reaches over and moves a strand of hair away from my face, just as she used to when I was younger. "You don't have to recover six years in one day. The boy has university, a family, and whatever else is happening in his life. Let him breathe."
"You make it sound like I'm going to chase him down the street."
"I haven't said that."
"You were thinking it."
"I was thinking that you have always been impatient when something matters to you."
I open my mouth to argue, but the words never come. I can't honestly deny it, and she knows that.
I put the tablet down and look at the ocean again. I want to know how his first days are going, whether he has found anyone he likes talking to, and whether he is still uncomfortable whenever too many people pay attention to him. But I can't simply walk into his life and expect everything to return to the way it was. He has had experiences I know nothing about, and I have lived through things he has never seen. Remembering someone is not the same as knowing who they have become, and my mother is right about that, even if I don't enjoy hearing it.
Isabella's office is the one room on the island that does not open towards the weather. The walls are fitted with screens, the blinds are lowered, and the only window looks towards a quiet stand of pines. It is a room designed for concentration rather than comfort, although she has never needed elaborate surroundings to decide.
She walks in at ten past nine. Her senior assistant is already waiting at the table with a tablet, standing with the quiet attentiveness of someone who has learned not to interrupt her employer unnecessarily.
"Good morning, Madam."
"Good morning. What's time-sensitive?"
"Two matters. The distribution agreement with the eastern group, and a request for clarification regarding the reports on Miss Hana's return."
"The first."
The assistant brings up the agreement. Isabella reviews the figures, asks two questions, and gives one instruction concerning the next meeting. The entire discussion takes only a few minutes, and she doesn't raise her voice or repeat herself, because she has never needed to. When the first matter is settled, she returns the tablet. "Now the second."
The assistant swipes to another screen. A collection of headlines, social media posts, and photographs fills the display. The Apex clip appears in several versions beside images of Soren and Selen Astar, and one headline has been enlarged across the centre.
Between fire and ice.
Isabella reads it without changing her expression. "Has anyone responded to these?"
"Two outlets have sent inquiries. One wants a statement from Miss Hana's office. The other asked whether she will attend an event with the Astar family."
"Good. Don't answer."
"Should we prepare a statement on her return?"
"There's no reason to turn a personal matter into an announcement." She hands the tablet back. "Monitor the reports about the boy. If anyone publishes something false, or follows him into a classroom, I want to know. Do not encourage further coverage. And don't let anyone use my daughter's name to build a connection that doesn't exist. Her friendships are not material for a promotional campaign."
"Yes, Madam." The assistant leaves, closing the door quietly behind her.
Isabella remains standing for a few seconds. The office is silent apart from the faint sound of the ventilation system. She looks at the pines beyond the window and thinks about the boy she remembers. Soren was polite, but not in the artificial way children sometimes become polite when adults are watching. He was observant, often noticing small things other children ignored. At one family gathering, he noticed a glass sitting unevenly on a table and quietly adjusted it when nobody was paying attention.
It was an insignificant gesture, and at the time she thought little of it. She remembers it now because the boy in the university video looks much the same: uncomfortable with attention, more interested in helping someone than in being noticed himself. She hopes nobody has taken advantage of that.
I spend the next hour in the central garden because it is the only place on the island where nobody is likely to interrupt me. The paths wind between flowering trees and small ponds, with a narrow bridge crossing the largest. Orange and white fish move slowly beneath the wooden boards, disappearing now and then into the shadows cast by the plants. A gardener is clipping a hedge somewhere to my left.
I walk without any particular destination and eventually stop on the bridge, resting my hands against the railing as I watch a fish vanish beneath the water. Soren used to watch birds. I remember asking him once why he was wasting his afternoon sitting beneath a tree instead of playing with the other children.
"I'm not wasting it. I'm watching."
I laughed at him then. I don't now.
I take out my phone and open our conversation. The last message is mine, sent two nights ago: Don't disappear. His reply sits directly beneath it: I won't. I read both again. I would rather not send something meaningless just because I miss him, but I also don't want to wait so long that speaking again becomes awkward. There is a difference between giving someone room and letting an old friendship fade because neither person knows how to begin.
After a little hesitation I type Are you surviving university?, read it once, decide it is acceptable, and press send. Then I put the phone in my pocket and keep walking. I reach the first bench, take it out to check the screen, and find nothing. I walk beneath another tree and check it a second time. By then I am laughing at myself.
"Impatient."
My mother's voice follows the word through my thoughts. You have always been impatient when something matters to you.
I sit beneath a jacaranda and take off my shoes, letting my feet rest against the grass. The phone buzzes while I am watching the branches move above me. So far. Two words. I stare at them for a moment and then laugh so suddenly that a bird leaves the branch overhead. It is accurately the answer I expected from him: no complaint, no performance, and no attempt to make an ordinary day sound more interesting than it was.
That's not very convincing, I type. His reply arrives shortly afterward. It's been busy. I ask whether it's too many people, and a gap follows, the three dots appearing, disappearing, and appearing again. I watch them with more attention than I should. Something like that.
I lean against the trunk. There are about nine questions I want to ask, and I put them away one at a time, like knives I don't need to use. I could ask whether he has made any friends, whether he likes his classes, and whether he remembers the garden wall. Instead I choose something simple. You'll get used to it. Or you'll find a way to avoid them. He answers, "Probably the second one, and I can almost see him typing it with the quiet expression he used to wear whenever somebody suggested he join a game he had no interest in playing.
I watched the video of your arrival.
Why?
Because you're famous now.
That's unfortunate.
I cover my mouth with one hand. A gardener glances over, and I give him an apologetic wave before looking back at the screen. You looked uncomfortable.I was.You should have smiled more.I was smiling.That was your smile? A long pause follows, and I wait, wondering whether he has put his phone away or is searching for a response. Yes.
I laugh until I have to rest the phone on my knee. The exchange is so ordinary that it makes me happier than I expected. There is no grand reunion, no dramatic declaration, and no attempt to make up for the years we spent apart. We are simply talking, and somehow that is enough.
When I pick the phone up again, another message is waiting. How are you? I look at the three words for a long moment. He has asked about me without being prompted, and I find myself thinking about how easily he used to do that, noticing when something was wrong and asking quietly, without demanding an explanation.
Good. I'm back home.
That's good.
Have you been busy with classes?
Yes. We're still getting used to everything.
You'll manage.
I hope so.
I read his prior message twice. There are several things I could tell him. I could say that I am glad he is in the same city again, that I have remembered him more often than I would admit to anyone, or that seeing him in a university video made an ordinary morning feel different. But some things are easier in person. I type something else instead. We should meet sometime.
I send it before I can change my mind. For a moment I wonder whether I have been too direct. Then I remember that I have never been good at hiding what I want. His reply arrives. Yeah. We should. It isn't a plan. There is no date, no location, and no promise about when we will see each other. Still, I look at the message for a while before I lock my phone, and I think it is enough for now.
My mother is in the common living area when I return, reading a document with a cup of tea going cold beside her. She looks up as I enter. "Something happened."
"Why?"
"You're smiling."
"I'm allowed to smile." I settle onto the sofa and pick up a cushion, placing it on my lap. I'm not sure why I feel the need to hide the conversation when she has already guessed. "We talked. Messages. Nothing important."
"Sometimes nothing important is important."
I stare at her. "Did you just say that? That was terrible."
"Perhaps." She turns a page. "Don't assume you know everything about him just because you remember who he was. Give him room to be different."
I nod, although I don't particularly enjoy the reminder. Childhood is a wonderful thing to remember, but it is a poor map for understanding someone who has spent six years living a life without you. The boy I remember has been somewhere else for a long time. He has grown older, met people, and experienced things I know nothing about, so I can't expect him to come back as the exact person who once sat beside me with a broken toy car.
"I want to know what he's like now," I say.
"Then get to know him."
"That's your advice? You're supposed to say something profound."
"Would you prefer a complicated answer?"
"No."
"Then there you are."
I laugh and lean back into the sofa. She returns to her document, although her eyes remain on me for a few seconds longer than necessary, and I pretend not to notice. Her words stay with me anyway. I would rather not turn Soren into a memory I keep trying to recreate. I would like to discover what he likes now, what bothers him, what makes him laugh, and what he has learned during the years we were apart. If we meet, I want to speak to him as he is, not as the boy I remember.
The afternoon passes without anything unusual. I read for an hour in the eastern lounge, have lunch with my mother on the terrace, and walk through the western garden. I also go through several boxes of belongings I brought home from three continents and haven't yet opened. Some contain clothes, some books, and a few hold small objects I had forgotten I owned. In one I find a notebook from an old school and spend several minutes looking through the pages, names, dates, sketches, and notes in different colors. I recognize some handwriting immediately. Other parts seem to belong to a person I haven't thought about in years.
It is an ordinary afternoon, and he is in every part of it. I check my phone more often than I should, but nothing comes from Soren, and I don't expect it to. He has his day, and I have mine.
By evening the sunlight has softened across the island. Garden lamps switch on one after another, and the windows of the distant buildings begin to glow. I return to the eastern balcony, where the tablet is still lying on the table with the university video open. I look at the first frame without pressing play: Soren beside the black car with a crowd gathered around him, his bag held tightly and his expression suggesting he would rather be somewhere else.
"Some things really don't change," I say quietly, and then I press play.
A few minutes later my mother comes outside carrying two cups. She places one beside my elbow and takes the chair opposite me. "Still watching?"
"Not really. I'm thinking about how strange it is." I rub my thumb along the edge of the cup. "Someone can be gone from your life for years, and then they're simply there again."
"Life does that."
"I thought it would feel different. A little. But when we talked, it was familiar." I shrug and look at the screen. "I don't know whether that's good or bad."
"It doesn't have to be either."
I turn towards her. "You're being careful with your answers today."
"Perhaps because I would rather not tell you what to feel." She looks out towards the sea. "You missed someone. You spoke to him again. You're happy. Those things don't need to be more complicated than they are."
I smile into my tea. "You're right."
"Occasionally."
"Don't get used to it."
She laughs, and we stay outside until the sky grows dark. Neither of us says much after that. The waves continue below the balcony, and the lights along the island's paths reflect faintly against the glass. I don't need to fill every quiet moment with conversation. Sometimes being with someone is enough.
That night I brush my hair in front of the mirror with my phone resting face up on the dressing table. The screen lights up twice, but neither notification is from Soren. I check the messages, answer one, and turn the phone face down. The island is quiet outside my window. Soft golden lights illuminate the paths, a security vehicle moves slowly along the perimeter road, and a few windows remain lit in the distant buildings while the ocean beyond them has become a dark stretch of water.
Somewhere across it, in a house much too large for him, a boy is probably asleep. Or perhaps he is still reading, or standing at a window of his own, looking at the night without any particular reason. I don't know what he is doing, and I don't need to. I consider sending another message and put the thought aside. We have already spoken today, and I don't want him to feel he has to answer me every time I think of something to say. There will be other conversations, provided we both allow them to happen naturally.
I leave the phone on the dressing table and get into bed. At the far end of the room, a photograph stands in a frame on the shelf. It is one of the few things I have carried through four airports without ever considering putting it in a drawer. It is a photograph from our childhood. His shirt is untucked, and he is laughing with his whole face at something I have said just outside the picture. I can't remember the exact conversation, but I remember being happy that day. I turn onto my side and look at it once more before closing my eyes.
The lamp remains on.
Isabella finishes her final review shortly after midnight. Her assistant has confirmed that the outlets have been advised to avoid unsupported claims about her daughter's return, and the reports concerning the boy are still being monitored. Nothing requires her direct intervention. She closes the last file and sits in the dim office, listening to the waves beyond the building.
Hana looked happy that morning. It wasn't the happiness of a victory, which she has experienced often enough to recognize and usually wears with confidence. This was quieter and less deliberate, appearing on her face without her having to think about it. Isabella has watched her daughter grow up in a world where nearly everything comes with expectations. People want her attention, her name, her influence, and the opportunities that come with being a Haze, and even friendships can become complicated when others begin measuring their value through family connections.
Some relationships, however, begin before any of that matters. There are friendships that are important because they existed before the money, the surname, the title, and the cameras, and the boy belongs to that time in Hana's life. Isabella intends to leave it alone. She doesn't need to arrange meetings or encourage her daughter to pursue something that should be allowed to develop naturally. Hana is old enough to decide whom she wants in her life, and Soren deserves the same freedom.
She switches off the office screen and stands. Before leaving, she glances once more towards the pines beyond the window. The world may already be interested in the connection between the Astar name and her daughter, but that doesn't mean the people involved have to become part of the story others are trying to write. She goes to bed.
I wake before the alarm the following morning and lie beneath the covers for several minutes, watching a narrow strip of sunlight appear along the edge of the curtains. My hand has already moved towards the phone on the bedside table before I realize what I'm doing. I stop halfway, laugh at myself, and roll over. I am being ridiculous.
When I finally get up, the house is already awake. Someone is playing music in one of the distant lounges, security personnel are changing shifts, and the faint sound of a kettle comes from the kitchen. My mother is seated at the breakfast table when I walk in.
"Good morning. You're early."
"I woke up."
"An extraordinary explanation."
I take my seat, and breakfast is brought over a few moments later. I check two messages, answer one, and place my phone beside my plate. My mother notices my eyes drifting towards it. "Expecting something?"
"No."
She raises an eyebrow but doesn't comment. I pick at a piece of melon and take a sip of water, and eventually decide that pretending not to think about something is more tiring than simply asking about it. "Do you think I should message him?"
She puts down her cup. "Do you have something to say?"
"Not really."
"Then perhaps wait until you do."
I nod. It is sensible advice, and I know she is right. I also know I will probably check my phone again in four minutes, but I don't tell her that.
After breakfast I return to the eastern balcony. The ocean looks much the same as it did yesterday, and the morning wind moves gently across the terrace. The tablet is still on the table, but I don't open the video this time. I look towards the mainland instead, where a line of towers is barely visible through the haze. Somewhere beyond them is Apex University, where Soren is beginning to build a life I haven't been part of. I picture him in his navy blazer, carrying his bag too tightly, trying to find his way through the crowds. Perhaps he is already in class. Perhaps he is looking for somewhere quiet to sit. I don't know, and that is all right.
There is so much I have yet to learn about him. I don't know what the coming months will bring, what the Astar name will mean for him, or how much attention the world will eventually place on his life. I don't know whether the people around us will make our friendship more complicated than it needs to be. What I do know is that he is out there, in the same city, close enough to message, and for now that is enough.
The world will call me the Living Fire. It already does. My mother will tell me it is a name I should be careful with, and there will always be people who believe they understand me because they have seen my photograph or read something about my family. But standing here, with the morning sun reaching my face and the ocean stretching beyond the railing, none of it feels important. I'm not thinking about the Haze name, the family business, or the expectations attached to my position. I'm thinking about a boy who once sat beside me because he thought I might not want to be alone, and about a broken toy car, a school garden, and a conversation neither of us ever needed to explain.
I rest my arms against the railing and let the sunlight warm my face. I'm just Hana, a girl who missed an old friend and got him back.
Then I turn from the sea and go inside.