The house was too quiet.
Not the peaceful quiet of a lazy morning. Not the comfortable silence of people who knew each other well enough to not need words. This was something else. Something heavier. The kind of quiet that made every small sound feel like an intrusion. The clink of a spoon against a teacup. The soft press of footsteps on hardwood. The creak of a floorboard as someone shifted their weight.
Kobe sat at the kitchen table, his hands flat on the worn wood, and listened to the silence stretch.
His mother was in the living room. He could hear her moving. Straightening things that were already straight. Folding blankets that were already folded. Nervous energy disguised as tidying.
His sister was upstairs. Her door was closed. She had been up there for an hour.
They were walking on eggshells.
He hated it.
He wished, fiercely and desperately, that they did not know. That the Eden Project was still a secret locked away in Commission files and the minds of the dead. But they know. His family knows. And he wishes badly they didn't.
Ignorance would have been easier. For all of them.
But they knew. And now everything was different. Every glance was loaded. Every word was careful. Every silence was thick with things unsaid.
This is what I wanted to avoid, he thought. This is why I stayed away.
A sound broke the quiet. The kettle. His mother was making tea.
In the other room, his sister's door opened. Footsteps on the stairs. Yuki appeared in the kitchen doorway, already dressed in her hero costume, her dark curls pulled back, her purple eyes tired.
"I am leaving," she said.
Their mother emerged from the kitchen, a towel in her hands. "You have to go?"
"I need to meet up with Gang Orca. Many heroes are overworked. He needs everyone he can get." Yuki's voice was flat. Professional. "I just graduated. I better put myself to use."
Their mother nodded slowly. She did not argue. She never argued anymore.
Yuki looked at Kobe. Her gaze lingered for a moment. Then she looked away.
"Bye."
The front door opened. Closed. Her footsteps faded down the path.
And then it was just the two of them.
His mother brought the tea.
She set the cup in front of him with careful hands. The ceramic was warm. The tea inside was pale green, steaming gently. She sat across from him, her own cup cradled in her fingers.
She was smiling. It was strained.
"Thank you," Kobe said.
He picked up the cup. Looked at it. Green tea.
He did not care much for tea. He never had. The etiquette of it, the ritual, the careful sips and quiet appreciation, none of it had ever made sense to him. When he was younger, he had dumped sugar into whatever tea his mother gave him. Spoonful after spoonful, until the drink was more sweetener than leaf. She had tried to stop him at first. Then she realised he was not going to change. So she let it be.
He wondered, briefly, if she had added sugar to this cup. If she remembered.
He took a sip.
There was none.
A pang of disappointment hit him. Small. Trivial. He almost laughed at himself for it. After everything, the fights, the deaths, the years of running, a cup of unsweetened tea was what made his chest ache.
He set the cup down.
His mother was watching him.
"UA will open again soon," she said. "You will be going."
It was not a question.
He nodded. "Yes."
She waited. When he did not elaborate, she continued.
"I wanted to be part of that. Helping you enrol. Meeting with the teachers. But..." She trailed off.
"It is fine," Kobe said. "Yuki and I are both very independent. You raised us that way."
His mother's smile flickered. She did not know if that was a compliment or an accusation. Neither did he.
He looked down at the cup.
"I do not like the uniform, though."
Her eyebrows rose. "The UA uniform?"
"It is ugly." He said it flatly. "The blazer. The colour. It looks like something from a private school for snobby and entitled children."
His mother laughed. It was a real laugh. Short. Surprised. But real.
"Would you prefer it all dark? Army-like? Like Shiketsu?"
He looked at her. She was smiling now. A real smile. She knew he would prefer that. She had always known.
He did not answer. But something in his expression must have confirmed it, because she laughed again.
The moment was nice. Almost normal.
Then it passed.
"I am sorry."
The words came out before he could stop them.
His mother's face changed instantly. The smile vanished. Her hands tightened around her cup.
"What do you mean?"
Kobe looked at the table. The wood was scratched. Old. He remembered sitting at this table as a child, colouring in books, watching his father read the newspaper. That was a different life. A different person.
"This is simply too weird," he said. "For as long as I have been back, both you and Yuki have been walking on eggshells around me."
His mother opened her mouth. He kept talking.
"I understand why. I do. You know what happened to me. You know what I did. What was done to me. You are trying to be careful. Trying not to make it worse."
He paused. The words were coming faster now. He could feel something building in his chest. Something hot. Something bitter.
"But nothing around us will ever be normal. The years I should have grown with you, they are gone. Replaced with something dreadful. Not even a lack. Misery. Misery that you will never relate to."
His voice was rising. He did not realise it until he heard it. The venom in his own words surprised him. He had not known he was still capable of that.
His mother did not flinch. She sat very still.
"Even you," he continued. "You will continue to think it was your fault. That you should have known. That you should have stopped it. And even if that feeling is not so strong now, it will grow. That is just human nature. Bitterness. Blame. It festers."
Silence.
He forced himself to stop. To breathe.
"After I left that place," he said, quieter now, "I travelled. I went to different countries. I met different people. I was trying to figure out how to act again. How to correct myself. How to be normal."
He looked up at her.
"Nothing clicked. Nothing will. This dynamic, the three of us, pretending that everything is fine, that we can just start over, it will not carry on as normal. Not for me. Not ever. And I do not think continuous contact will help either of us."
His mother's face was sad. But she did not cry. She had cried before. In the hospital. At the funeral. Now, she just looked tired.
She sighed. A long, sad exhale.
"I know," she said. "I know it too."
She set her cup down. Her hands were steady.
"In my heart, no matter how remorseful I am, no matter how much love I believe I have to give... whatever was done to you simply will not allow you to feel it. It is like a cold film is wrapped around you. Freezing it away."
Kobe nodded. "Yeah. Something like that."
He looked at the cup of tea. Still warm. Still unsweetened.
"UA has dorms," he said. "I can probably find a place. After I settle in. And for holidays, I will be around. But I just..." He paused. "I need my space."
His mother nodded slowly. She did not argue.
"You are my son," she said. "You will always have a home with me. If you can find it."
The words hung in the air. Not a threat. Not a guilt trip. Just a fact. A door left open.
Kobe did not know if he would ever walk through it again.
But he was glad it was there.
He picked up the tea. Took another sip. Still bitter. Still unsweetened.
He drank it anyway.