Page 146 of Eternal

AZRA

“Over The Rainbow” by Eve Cassidy

Present

I wake up before the sun next to him. His breathing is steady beside me, deep in sleep. I don’t want to wake him, he really does look peaceful when he’s not awake.

I didn’t tell him how scared I am thinking about this whole mess. How much my stomach twists just thinking about going back to that place.

Almost twenty years since I left… not left, more like had to.

I was so… small back then. So sad, but still hopeful. I wish I could breathe the way I did before. Maybe it wouldn’t feel so disgusting to be alive, to exist.

But yeah… life had other plans. Cruel ones. Realistic ones.

And now I have to go back there.

The house... I don’t even know if it’s still standing, if someone else lives there now, or if it’s been sold off.

I hope not. I hope it’s empty, untouched.

Did they clean the floor when they took the bodies out? Or is the blood still soaked into the cracks of the walls, the wood, the air itself? Is it part of the house now, permanent and rotting?

I wish I could tell him how scared I am. How stressed I am simply thinking about walking through that door again. I’m supposed to be stronger now. Smarter. Better. But going back there feels like the worst thing I’ve ever had to do.

And I don’t have the words to explain why.

It’s humiliating, somehow, to say it out loud, especially to him, to admit how bad it really got in those last years.

How I used to wake up at night, unable to breathe. How I counted the bruises in the mirror, like proof I was still there. How I had to make sure she was still breathing some nights.

And even now, with everything I’ve done, everything I’ve survived, that house still makes me feel like I’m seven years old and powerless again.

Like I could disappear inside it and no one would notice.

That thought? That one I try not to think about.

Last night, after he finally drifted off, I tried writing in the journal again. Some pages have been changed, not many, only enough to throw me off, they did it on purpose, I don’t know how. The writing looks so close… but it’s not hers, not really.

I told myself it was because of how her life changed, that the drinking, the grief, the spiral, it altered her handwriting too, that it made sense.

But… What if it’s more than that?

What if they faked more than the writing?

What if I’m too stupid to see it? Too blind to catch the lies buried in the ink?

I don’t know what I’m looking for anymore, but I have to try. I’m almost ashamed to admit it, but I’m scared, not of a person or a thing. I’m terrified of my past, of the memories waiting for me in that house. That place where everything broke apart, where I lost more than my family.

And maybe, deep down, I’m scared of what I’ll find there.

I get up quietly, trying to make as little sound as possible. I pause by the bed and lean down, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek.

I smile, heart tightening, and slip out the door. I take a quick shower and dress quickly and leave a note on the kitchen table. Then I pull on my jacket, grab my bike keys, and head out into the cool morning air.

My breaths come quick and shallow, like I’m barely catching air. It’s not full panic, only this tight knot squeezing my chest, making my ribs ache. I’m exhaling too fast, like if I don’t slow down, I’ll drown in my own breath.

Eyes shut, I force the words out in a whisper: It’s gonna be okay, Azra. Just breathe. Please, breathe.

I put my helmet on and glance back at his apartment for a few seconds. I’ll miss his safety today… but it’s okay. No it’s not… Because why did I automatically take Sunny with me?

The sun is still low when I start riding my bike.

The road is long, winding through parts of Vegas I barely recognize anymore, empty lots, cracked sidewalks, streets where the dust seems to settle permanently.

It’s insane to think I left that place when I was so young, when I barely understood what life even meant. But I know this road perfectly. Every bump, every turn. It’s burned into my memory.

My stomach twists harder with every pedal stroke, the sick feeling settling deep like a warning. I want to turn back. But I don’t.

I slow my bike, heart tightening as the house comes into view.

It’s worse than I imagined. The house sits all alone, like it’s been swallowed by silence.

The paint is faded and peeling, the wood beneath splintered and gray.

The front porch sags, one step broken, like it’s giving up on holding itself together.

Windows are shattered or boarded up, and the garden’s a mess, cracked dirt, dead weeds, dead irises.

I can’t stop the memories from flooding in, the screams, the blood, the way it felt like it was ripping me apart.

My chest tightens, and it’s hard to catch my breath.

Okay, just breathe. Slow down.

I press my hand to my ribs, trying to hold myself together. I move closer to the garden, trying not to breathe too hard. A tear slips down my cheek before I even notice.

The irises… they were already dead before everything fell apart. Dry, brittle, tangled up with weeds that don’t care.

The front door’s hanging off its hinges, paint all cracked and peeling like it’s been left to rot for years. I push it open, and it creaks loud but I can’t stop myself from stepping inside.

Dust everywhere, broken furniture, glass scattered on the floor. The wood groans under me with every step, like it remembers, how I ran, how fast joy turned into fear.

There’s still blood, faint but real, in the corners, like the house can’t let go of that night.

I was supposed to be there, too, supposed to die with them, but I didn’t.

The silence crushes me, like it’s squeezing the air out of my lungs. And this place… it’s still standing. Empty. Broken . Full of ghosts I don’t want to meet.

I take a shaky breath and keep walking forward.

The living room’s barely lit, but I can make out the shape of our old TV, one of those bulky, boxy ones.

I kneel down and trace the dusty screen with my fingers. I wonder what my baby brother would look like now. Almost twenty years gone, and he never got to see the world like it is today, never saw TVs like this turn into sleek, flat screens or the internet take over everything.

If Mom were still here… would she still be married to Volk?

Would things be different?

Would she have been a good mother to Eren?

Would she even still be my mom?

My other hand tightens around Sunny, as I get up and walk through the living room in silence.

I think I’m going crazy, because I can vividly see what used to happen in this house.

I feel it. I breathe it in.

The anxiety of being a seven-year-old kid, taking care of a mother vomiting her guts from alcohol and drugs.

The stress of watching her sleep, not knowing if she’d wake up.

The fear of being locked in the dark with only a plush toy for company, punished for flushing her vodka bottle down the toilet. And then the abandonment…

When Alexei took my little brother to sleep somewhere else, for his well-being.

And me? What about my well-being? It never really mattered.

My footsteps wake the floorboards, and the memories. The old couch is still there, dirty, worn out, and I drop onto it, automatically.

It’s weird, this feeling…

I feel at home, but not like when I’m with Damir, not that kind of home.

This house aches, it reminds me I followed the same path she did.

That I started drinking too, started destroying myself with whatever I could find, to make it stop, because thinking hurt too much, because breathing wasn’t enough anymore.

My eyes land on the box under the TV, a broken blue shoebox full of VHS tapes.

I reached out, my fingers trembled a little.

A half-faded label: “Summer 1997- Azra, 7 years old.”

And I want to see it.

Little me happy . Little me, who didn’t yet know how much life would wreck her a few weeks after this was filmed. I plug in the screen and insert the tape.

Play.

The world flickers, then brightens. And there she is. Mom.

The real one, the one from before, the one I’ll always love, the one I’ll always regret.

We’re in the garden, the irises are beautiful, purple and yellow. I’m running barefoot through the grass, laughing.

She’s laughing too, behind the camera.

“Want me to say it again, my angel?”

“Yes, Mommy … I like that poem. Can you say it again?”

Her voice... It’s like honey, like cotton, like a warm blanket in a cold winter. And yet, I know what comes next. Her voice, ruined by years of vomiting, vocal cords burned out with alcohol.

Near the end, I could barely hear her. A few weeks after this video, my mom disappeared, not physically, but everything else. She became a terrified, exhausted, almost-dead version of herself.

But I didn’t know that back then. I laughed. I smiled.

“ You’re the iris of my world, pure and tender, and you have always been my breath.”

And in the background, that music, coming from the house. It didn’t match the poem at all. But I didn’t care. I wanted to hear everything, all at once.

“You’ll never forget that poem, right?”

I nodded, picked a flower from the ground, an iris. And I ran to her, laughing.

I hugged her tight. The camera wobbles, she laughed.

“I promise, Mommy, I won't forget.”

Tears fall silently. Like my sadness has always been mute. And it always was. Alone and mute.

I get up. The video is still playing. I can hear us. I look around the house. The shelves. The table. I see blood stains no one ever cleaned. And then I see it. At the top of the bookshelf. Mom’s favorite poetry collection. Hidden behind a row of books.

That’s when it all comes back. She never let me touch it. Ever. And that night, when we were attacked... She ran here, grabbed that book, held it against her chest. Then she held me. One last time. And she put it back. Exactly there.

I take it, and open it. The screen still flickers in the background. The tape loops.

But I’m not watching anymore. I flip through pages, faster, slower, then fast again. And then I found it. Page 23.

The poem. My poem. I stop breathing. The page feels too heavy.

I run my thumb along the edge. Something rustles.

I lift the page carefully. Behind it, not one, but several sheets of thin, folded newsprint. Old. Yellowed. Each one marked with a tiny note in Mom’s handwriting:

P2 L4 C6-8

P1 L2 C3

P3 L1 C5-7

At first, it looks like gibberish. Then I realized. P for paragraph. L for line. C for character She wasn’t simply clipping articles. She was encoding something into them. First article.

Paragraph 2. Line 4. Characters 6 to 8. I count. L. U. X. Next clipping. I. Then, S.

Luxis.

I frown. That’s not, I keep going. Another clipping. S. H. I. R. A. Z. Luxis Shiraz.

I blink, but grab the next article. P4 L3 C2-5.

L. U. X. I.

Again. Again. Again.

Every article. Different code. Different paragraph, line, letter, but the same result. Luxis Shiraz.

Every time. Again. Luxis Shiraz . Again. Luxis Shiraz. Like a signature. Hidden. Over and over. Every article she saved. All of them.

She found it. Again and again. She kept it to herself. She must’ve thought… No . She knew.

He was sending her something. She didn’t write his name. She didn’t need to.

Because it was already there. Built into the message. Signed.

Not for the world. For her.

I grab the last clipping. The ink is smudged, the paper wrinkled. It’s not from a newspaper. It’s been hand-delivered. There’s a note on the back. Faint. Almost invisible. The code’s the same. And the signature is there. But this time, there's something more.

They’re coming for you. Stop everything, take your children. Hide. I’ll cover you. -L

I freeze.

He knew.

She knew. She never said his name. Because she couldn’t. But she trusted him. And now I know. It was never random. It was always a message.

My chest tightens.

Luxis Shiraz.

Who is that? Why have I never heard that name before?

Not once. Not in her journal. Not during all the years I tried to put the pieces together on my own. Not in a single file, a single testimony, a single name drop.

Why?

But then again… They changed so many pages before giving the journal back to me. So much was missing. So much was… rewritten.

What is true? What isn’t?

Why would she never say his name? And why would she hide it here, folded inside these pages, coded into lines and letters like a secret language meant only for her?

Did she ever want me to find this?

I don’t know.

I flip over one of the clippings. The paper is worn, yellowing, marked with her tight, neat handwriting.

For L.S. Continue the mission if I fall.

And below that, signed: A. Amane.

My mother.

I don’t know what to believe. Was Luxis Shiraz her source? Her contact? Someone she trusted?

And from the corner of the living room, the video keeps playing. The static hum, the soft, looping video.

“Do you promise you’ll never forget it?”

“Promise, Mama. Never.”

My knees buckle.

I drop to the floor. The poetry book pressed against my chest, and then, from the TV, the music starts.

Somewhere over the rainbow…

Her voice. Then mine. Singing together.

I clutch Sunny and press my face into him. I cry, quiet and broken, and I sing. Softly. Desperately. The words are barely there.

Way up high…

The images flicker in my head. Mom when I was little. Mom when she was still trying. Mom when she was gone but not dead. Mom when she disappeared inside herself.

And the thought creeps in cruelly.

If I’d never been born, would she have been happy?

Would she have stayed in Jordan, with her poems and her brothers and her garden? Would she have had a quiet life? A gentler one? Did I break her, only by existing?

I know it’s not fair. But I can’t stop the thought, I can’t stop the ache.

I loved her. Even when she couldn’t love me back. Even when she was gone. I covered her with blankets when she passed out. I cleaned up after her. I sat beside her. I waited. For her to hug me, to tell me she was going to be okay. To just… be my mom.

And I hate her. I hate her for leaving. I hate her for destroying herself and our family.

But more than that, I hate the ones who did this to her. The ones who hurt her, the ones who changed her, the ones who broke everything we were.

I lift my head and grab my phone. Hands shaking. Brian .

I type quickly:

Me

Hey, hope everything is fine in Vesper. Can you look something up? I just have a name: Luxis Shiraz. Anything you can find, anything at all. Please. Don’t log the search.

I sent it. Then I lie back on the floor, staring at the ceiling, Sunny in my arms.

The TV flickers. The tape loops. And her voice keeps singing. Mine too.

Two voices. Mother and daughter. One last time.