the silence was the first thing that hit her. not awkward. not uncertain. just tense. like a room holding its breath before the detonation.
cain stood in the middle of it, arms stiff at her sides, jaw clenched hard enough to ache. she stared across the room at the woman leaning casually against the doorframe like this wasn’t the first time she’d left her children behind.
meisa looked the same. that was the worst part. same face. same eyes. same smile. same woman who walked out without a goodbye that meant anything. the same woman who left austin scrambling to fill shoes he was never meant to wear. the same woman who disappeared before cain even learned what to do with all the rage clawing through her ribs.
and she still looked twenty-nine. maybe thirty. perfect. untouched by time.
cain’s chest twisted. she didn’t let it show.
meisa tilted her head, lips curving in something soft—almost nervous, but still too smooth around the edges. “you’ve grown.”
cain barked a bitter laugh. “yeah, that’s what happens when you leave kids behind for a decade or two.”
meisa flinched. only a little. barely enough to be noticed—but cain caught it.
god, she was tired. tired of pretending it didn’t matter. tired of pretending that austin stepping in was enough—that burying everything under blood and fire and knuckles split raw had done anything but delay the inevitable.
meisa took a step in. slow. deliberate. cautious, like she knew what cain was capable of now. “i didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“you left.”
“i didn’t know how to explain—”
“try.” cain’s voice cracked, loud and sharp. “try telling a kid why her mom doesn’t age. why she vanishes. why she doesn’t even call. or how about the bloodlust? we could talk about that?”
meisa’s lips parted, but whatever answer she had fell flat before it reached the air.
too little. too late.
and suddenly, cain moved.
not at her. just beside her.
her fist slammed into the wall an inch from meisa’s head—through the drywall, through the pain, through every year of silence she’d swallowed like glass. the wall caved like it owed her something, and her hand came back shredded and bleeding.
the scent of blood hit the air. thick. metallic. familiar.
cain pulled the cloth from her pocket, wrapped the hand like she’d done it a hundred times before—because she had. tight. fast. practiced.
meisa’s eyes fell to her hands. then stayed.
bruises. scabs. scars. some healed. some new. all violent.
she didn’t say anything.
cain did. her voice was low. uneven.
“you think austin was supposed to be my parent? he was a kid. he couldn’t even keep me from blowing out the damn windows when i got angry. do you know what it’s like to see your brother cry because he doesn’t know how to fix you?”
meisa stayed quiet.
because no. she didn’t know.
she didn’t know about the bloodlust. about the days cain couldn’t breathe through it. about the way she’d tear through furniture and walls and people because the darkness inside her didn’t care about right or wrong.
she didn’t know how it felt to wake up with blood on your hands and no memory of what you did to earn it. she didn’t know because she wasn’t there.
“i didn’t think you’d come out like this,” meisa finally said, voice quiet. not an excuse. just a truth.
cain’s eyes flared. “what the hell does that mean?”
meisa held her gaze. steady. for once, she didn’t try to deflect. didn’t flash a grin or change the subject or offer something pretty and meaningless.
“sometimes it skips a generation,” she said. “sometimes it stays buried. sometimes it never comes out at all.”
cain’s jaw ticked. “so you left to avoid a maybe.”
“i left because i didn’t know how to be a mother to someone like you---like us,” meisa admitted. “i was barely learning how to live with it myself.”
cain looked like she might hit the wall again. or scream. or shatter entirely.
but she didn’t.
she just stood there. breathing hard. bleeding. shaking.
meisa stepped closer. slow. “i know it’s too late to fix anything,” she said. “i know what i did. i just—i want you to know i never stopped loving you.”
cain stared at her. cold and hollow. then, quietly, she muttered: “love doesn’t mean shit if you leave.” and she walked out. hand still bleeding. rage still burning.
meisa didn’t follow.
she just looked at the blood on the wall and wondered if maybe—just maybe—the wound cain carried was one she’d carved herself.
He wears the Meisa (blue tit) ring, set with tanzanite and sapphires on white gold, the Plume de Paon (peacock feather) earrings, articulated to give them movement, set with diamonds on white gold and set with a rose-cut diamond, and a vintage headband adorned with seven fan motifs, with a diamond frame. Embroidered suit by Lanvin.
