BETWEEN WORLDS - Chapter 11
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The gym echoed with squeaking sneakers and heavy breathing as Coach's whistle marked the end of practice. Azeil Carter bent forward, hands on knees, sweat dripping onto the familiar hardwood after his first week with Langston Hughes basketball team. Fatigue was rewarding, earned rather than imposed.
"Bring it in," Coach called, gesturing for players to gather.
Azeil straightened, exchanging a quick glance with Devon, who'd guarded him during scrimmage. The lanky sophomore nodded, a small acknowledgment that was unthinkable Monday when Azeil first joined the team. Five days of effort had built mutual respect.
The team huddled, a circle of exhausted bodies buzzing with competitive energy. Rashaad caught Azeil's eye and mouthed "nice pass," referring to a no-look assist he'd made through two defenders, another victory in a week of progress.
"Solid work today," Coach started, scanning players. "First game Monday against Westside. They got size but lack discipline. We need to exploit that." He paused, clipboard under one arm, his expression unreadable. "Focus on conditioning over the weekend. I want everyone fresh on Monday. Questions?"
The silence that followed was missing the tension from Monday's practice, where Zahair's hostility had filled the air. Though still resentful, Zahair channeled his antagonism into aggressive defense instead of verbal attacks, respecting Coach's clear boundaries established that first day.
"Hands in," Rashaad called.
Sixteen hands reached toward center, stack of varying skin tones united by purpose. Azeil's hand found its place without hesitation this time.
"Langston on three! One, two, three!"
"LANGSTON!" The shout echoed off the ceiling, a unified declaration that included Azeil without qualification.
As the huddle broke and players headed to the locker room, Azeil glanced at Nia in bleachers, textbook across her lap. Their eyes met briefly, her smile reflecting the connection they'd made during lunch sessions. She tapped her watch, reminding him of their plan to walk home after practice.
"Carter," Coach called as Azeil turned towards the locker room. "Got a minute?"
Azeil nodded, changing direction to join Coach by the sideline. He noticed the gym emptying as players left with gym bags, talking about weekend plans. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Nia close her textbook, waiting patiently.
"I've been thinking about Monday's lineup," Coach said, focused on his clipboard. "After this week—"
"Coach," Azeil interrupted. "I'd like to come off the bench."
Coach's head snapped up, eyebrows raised. The first time he'd seen real surprise on his face. "Come again?"
"I want to come off the bench," Azeil repeated, more confident. "I'd rather lead the second unit than start."
Coach studied him closely, used to reading motivations. "Most players would fight for that starting spot, not turn it down."
"Starters have chemistry," Azeil explained, gathering thoughts he'd formed during Thursday's scrimmage with the second unit. "Zahair, Rashaad, the twins—they know each other's moves. Second unit needs structure and someone to create opportunities for Devon and Tyson."
Coach removed his glasses and tucked them into his pocket as he considered Azeil's reasoning. "That's a mature perspective. Not many players would make that call." A hint of approval softened his expression. "Reminds me of your mom."
The unexpected reference caught Azeil off-guard. Though Coach had shown him photo of Elise Carter from her Langston days, there was nary a mention through the remainder of teh week. "My mom?"
"Elise understood team dynamics better than most," Coach said, gazing into the distance. "She knew when to take over and when to make space for others. Her real talent was reading situations and making strategic choices instead of ego-driven ones."
Azeil felt warmth at the comparison. Throughout the three weeks, he'd collected small insights about his mom's time at Langston, casual comments from teachers and the story from Coach, each revealing unknown aspects of Elise Carter.
"So you're okay with it?" Azeil asked, bringing topic back. "Me coming off bench?"
Coach nodded slowly. "If that's your choice, but understand this doesn't mean reduced minutes. You'll still close games if you earn it."
"Understood."
"And Carter?" Coach extended his hand. "This team thing? It works both ways. They're starting to see you belong here. Don't doubt that."
Azeil accepted the handshake, sealing more than the lineup agreement; it marked his transition from outsider to teammate.
"Thanks, Coach."
As Coach walked to his office, Azeil glanced at Nia in the bleachers, her curious expression showing she'd seen their exchange. Her raised eyebrow held silent question he'd answer as soon as they walked home through the familiar streets.
He headed towards the locker room, knowing his decision would impact Monday's game and beyond. The Highland Prep version of him would've calculated advantages before choosing this role, weighing glory against strategy. But at Langston, a new Azeil was emerging, one shaped by what he could contribute rather than what he could gain.
He wondered what his mom would think, and for first time in weeks, that question felt less heavy.
The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the parking lot when Azeil left the gym. He’d d quickly showered and changed into a pair of jeans and a dark blue hoodie. Nia stood by the flagpole, her eyes fixed on her phone, with her debate team sweatshirt tied around her waist.
"Sorry," Azeil said as he approached. "Coach wanted to talk."
Nia looked up, slipping her phone into her back pocket. "I saw. Looked serious." Her tone held curiosity without demand, space for explanation without pressure.
"He wanted to discuss Monday's lineup." They began to walk away from the school.
"And?"
"I decided to come off the bench."
Nia stopped dead. "Wait, you turned down starting? After how you played? Most guys would fight for that spot."
They continued past the bodega where they'd stopped for sodas Wednesday, neon signs flickering to life in the dusk. Azeil searched for the words he'd found with Coach.
"It's not just about Zahair, though that's part of it. The starting five have chemistry. They know each other's moves without looking. That takes years to build."
"You're sacrificing your spot for team peace?"
"I'm making a strategic choice. The second unit needs organization. They need someone to create shots for Devon and Tyson, recognize when Marco's hot and feed him the ball."
They crossed the street, stepping around a cluster of middle-schoolers arguing about some video game. The neighborhood felt less foreign now, the same route to school each day building familiarity.
"That's smart." A pause. "Long-term thinking."
"Coach mentioned my mother made similar choices." The words hung between them. Nia glanced at him, recognizing the weight. All week she'd watched Azeil collect details about Elise Carter's time at Langston, preserving them like artifacts.
"You've been different this week," she said as they turned onto Maple Street, bare branches forming patterns against the darkening sky. "More... present."
Accurate. Monday's practice had been calculated movements, strategic responses. By Friday, something had shifted. Moments of natural engagement where instinct replaced constant calculation.
"It's getting easier. Not completely, but better."
"Rashaad seems to have warmed up. I saw him talking to you after that assist."
"Yeah, we're connecting. He asked about some plays I ran at Highland." Azeil smiled. "His basketball IQ is incredible. He sees plays before they develop."
"You respect him."
"I do. He could hold a grudge about that championship game, but he's making it work instead." He shrugged. "That matters."
They walked in comfortable silence, the neighborhood settling into Friday evening rhythms, families returning home, weekend music spilling from open windows, dinner smells mixing in the cool air.
"Sorry we haven't done that photography trip," Azeil said, nodding toward the river district. "With basketball and midterms—"
"Don’t sweat it," Nia waved him off. "At this rate, we might never get those urban decay shots, but the buildings aren't going anywhere. Besides, our study sessions aren't exactly torture."
Their daily routine. Same corner table in the cafeteria, preparing for midterms. What started as Nia helping him navigate Langston's academic expectations had become something he looked forward to.
"Mrs. Henderson's test will be brutal," he said. "All those symbolism questions on Native Son."
"You basically taught a master class yesterday. Even Henderson was impressed." She nudged him. "Highland Prep education showing through."
No judgment in her voice, just recognition. Earlier, that might have highlighted his outsider status. Now it was simply part of who he was.
The streetlight above them flickered erratically.
"Someone should fix that," Azeil noted.
"They won't. It's been like that since freshman year." Nia paused. "Can I ask about your mom?"
The question felt different now, a sign of growing trust. Azeil nodded.
"What happened? How did you end up here with your dad?"
The streetlight cast shifting shadows across their faces. Azeil slowed his pace.
"Cancer. Pancreatic. By the time they found it, it had spread."
Nia's fingers found his, grounding him as the memories surfaced, the antiseptic hospital smell, beeping monitors, his mother's voice outlining arrangements she'd already made.
"She knew during that championship game. Had the diagnosis for weeks. Never said a word."
"She wanted you to have that moment."
"Yeah." The realization had come gradually, how Elise protected that experience from shadow. "One day everything was normal. The next, hospital rooms and funeral homes." He swallowed hard. "Suddenly I'm packing my life, moving in with a father I barely know."
Nia's hand tightened around his. They walked in shared silence, streetlights illuminating their path.
"My dad left when I was nine," Nia said, voice steady. "His choice to go. But I remember that feeling, when the world you knew just... disappears."
Not the same pain, but pain understood in different forms.
"Does it get better?" Azeil asked.
"Not better exactly," Nia replied. "Different. You build something new. Not to replace what you lost, but..." She searched for the right words. "You find ways to carry it with you instead of just feeling its absence."
Her insight hit him, the same thing Coach Booker had said about his mother's legacy. Not replacement, but continuation.
As they turned onto Jackson's street, the house appeared. A flickering porch light, worn steps, a door that never quite closed right. The sight felt different than Monday. Not home yet, but no longer foreign territory.
On the porch, cigarette ember glowing in the dusk, sat his father.
Jackson Carter sat on the porch, work boots still on, cigarette nearly finished. He looked tired, a long week at the garage weighing on his shoulders.
"Damn, son," he called as they approached. "That shiner's looking almost human again." His comment carried both concern and humor, the evolving vocabulary of fatherhood. All week he'd made similar remarks about Azeil's injuries from the Zahair fight.
"Thanks. I hadn't noticed," Azeil replied. Nia squeezed his hand briefly as they reached the porch.
Jackson's gaze caught their joined hands just as they separated. His eyebrows raised. "Well, well. My boy found himself a woman, did he?"
"No," Azeil and Nia said in unison.
Jackson's laugh rumbled warm and genuine. "Maybe you’re right 'cause you ain't getting her something to drink." He pushed himself upright, joints protesting years of physical labor. "Your mother would have my hide for the lack of manners."
The mention of Elise felt different now, not fresh pain, but complex acknowledgment. Jackson had woven such references into their conversations, tiny fragments of history offered across their emotional gulf.
"Coach called earlier," Jackson continued as they climbed the steps. "Said you're making waves. Good waves." He held the door open. "Didn't give details, just said you were doing well with the team."
Azeil was surprised. The idea that Coach Booker and his father communicated about his progress was unexpected.
"Just figured some things out about my role with the team," Azeil replied, stepping into the living room. Signs of his presence, textbooks, charging laptop, Highland Prep sweatshirt, were scattered throughout.
"Nia, right?" Jackson addressed her properly for the first time. "Heard about you. Debate team, Coach mentioned?"
"Yes, sir," she replied with the poise Azeil recognized from her teacher interactions. There was no surprise in her mind that Jackson was receiving regular reports considering Azeil’s situation. "Team captain."
Jackson nodded approvingly. "Smart, then. That tracks." He gestured toward the kitchen. "Want something to drink? Got soda, water, maybe some juice if it hasn't grown legs yet."
The casual hospitality marked a shift. All week Jackson had made similar gestures, dinner in the microwave when work kept him late, awkward questions about homework, attempts at conversation during rare aligned moments.
"I should probably get her home," Azeil said, noting the darkening sky. "It's getting late."
"Is it?" Nia checked her phone, surprised. "Oh, no. Last bus left twenty minutes ago."
The distance to Nia's neighborhood, at least thirty minutes by foot through increasingly unsafe areas after dark.
"It’s fine, I can make it home" Nia said, scrolling contacts. "She'll be off her hospital shift soon. Jason is staying over at a friend’s house."
"Home alone, by yourself?" Jackson groaned. "The walk alone is dangerous and what if your mom has to work late? Nah, I think, if you want, you can stay here."
The offer surprised them all. They stood frozen—Nia with phone in hand, Jackson’s hands on hips, Azeil caught between options.
"Look—" Jackson started, then hesitated. His expression shifted to concern. "It's not safe out here this late, especially for a young lady."
Azeil watched his father's demeanor change from mechanic to parent, instinct overcoming awkwardness.
“Azeil, take my room. Nia can have yours."
The proposal crossed boundaries and extended trust.
"Mr. Carter, I couldn't take your bed," Nia protested, though her face showed consideration.
"Couch and I are old friends," Jackson waved away her concern. "It's Friday. No one has plans tomorrow." He looked at Azeil, gruffness overlaying uncertainty. "That work for you?"
The question acknowledged Azeil's consent in household decisions, partnership instead of authority.
"If Nia's mom is okay with it..." Azeil replied.
"I'll call her," Nia said. "She'd want to speak with you first."
"Fair enough," Jackson nodded. "Nia, you can lock your door. The house isn't great, but it's secure." The unprompted reassurance revealed a side of Jackson that Azeil hadn't fully seen, beneath the gruff exterior lived respect for a young woman's safety in an unfamiliar place.
"I'll just..." Azeil gestured toward the kitchen, needing space. "Get some water for everyone."
As he retreated, he heard Nia dialing, her tone shifting formal. "Hi, Mom, I'm at Azeil's. Practice ran late, and we missed the last bus..."
In the kitchen, Azeil found glasses and filled them from the filtered pitcher his father kept stocked despite the plumbing issues. Small actions that let him process this shifting normalcy and his father's emerging parental role.
When he returned with the glasses, the atmosphere had shifted. Nia sat on the couch, phone tucked away, while Jackson stood by the door with his arms crossed.
"Mom had to take another shift, so she’s thankful I have a place to stay without being home alone," Nia said, accepting the water. "After she spoke with your dad." The casual designation hit differently than "Mr. Carter" or "your father", it acknowledged something real taking shape between them.
"I'll get towels," Jackson said, heading toward the closet. "Bathroom's got fresh soap. Help yourself to whatever." He paused, glancing back with unexpected self-consciousness. "Place isn't much, but we manage."
After Jackson disappeared, Nia caught Azeil's eye with an amused look.
"Your dad's sweet," she said quietly.
"He's trying," Azeil replied, recognizing the truth in it. A week ago, he might have missed Jackson's efforts entirely. The effort was there, the intent was pure, and that’s all Azeil could really ask for at this point in time.
“I'm crashing in my dad's room tonight. That's weird, right?" he asked.
Nia laughed. "The whole situation is weird, Azeil. But good weird." She studied him over her water glass. "He cares. That matters."
Jackson returned with mismatched towels, dropping them on the coffee table. "Bathroom's yours whenever. I'm grabbing a shower before you kids need it." He turned to Azeil. "Show her your room, son. Make sure she's comfortable."
As the bathroom door closed, Azeil stood frozen. The simple suggestion carried unexpected weight.
"You don't have to if it's too weird. I can crash on the couch," Nia said, sensing his hesitation.
"No," Azeil said, finding his footing. "It's fine. Just unexpected."
He led her down the hallway to his room, a small space that had become genuinely his over the past week. Unlike the rest of the house, everything here was precisely arranged: basketball gear on hooks, textbooks aligned on the desk, bed made with hospital corners despite Jackson's casual housekeeping.
"It's not much," he said as Nia entered.
"It's nice. Clean," she took in the details.
She wasn't judging, just acknowledging the care he'd put into the space. The organization wasn't just habit, it was assertion.
"The photos are new," Nia said, gesturing to his desk. The collection had grown: team photo from Highland Prep, a candid from Langston practice, and in the center, the photo Coach Booker had given him of Elise Carter in her uniform.
"Coach gave me that one," he said, nodding at his mother's photo.
Nia studied it respectfully. "You have her eyes. Same intensity."
The observation warmed him. People mentioned physical resemblance often, but few caught the deeper inheritance.
He grabbed a clean t-shirt and shorts from his dresser. "These might be big on you."
Nia accepted them with a slight smile. "What, you're not into the oversized look?"
The teasing cut through the tension. Azeil smiled genuinely for the first time in days. "Very on trend. All the magazines recommend drowning in fabric."
Their laughter filled the room, transforming uncertainty into something comfortable.
The bathroom door opened. "Shower's free!" Jackson called out.
Nia shifted the borrowed clothes in her arms, her expression settling into warm composure. "Thank you," she said, the words carrying weight beyond politeness.
"It's nothing," Azeil brushed it off.
She nodded, a soft smile spreading across her face. "It is. Even if you don't realize it, it is," she said gently.
Before he could respond, she wrapped him in a hug. As they pulled apart, she leaned in and kissed him lightly on the cheek.
"Now get out," she said playfully. "I can't change with you here."
Azeil laughed, not the cautious chuckle he'd been using all week, but something genuine. "Yes, ma'am," he said, backing toward the door. "Yell if you need anything."
In the hallway, the door clicked shut. Azeil stood frozen in the space between his room and his father's. The sound of rustling fabric came through the thin walls.
He found Jackson on the couch, TV volume low. Jackson looked up, uncertainty flickering across his face.
"She all set?" he asked.
"Yeah," Azeil replied, settling across from him. "Thanks for letting her stay."
Jackson shrugged. "Just made sense."
Nia listened as Azeil's footsteps faded down the hallway, followed by quiet voices with his father. The borrowed clothes, a Langston Hughes Basketball t-shirt and practice shorts, lay folded on the bed. Now alone, she took in details of Azeil's room that revealed more than their conversations ever had. Neat textbooks, arranged photographs, a basketball centered on the desk, everything in its place despite the chaos in his life.
Her gaze found a photo of Elise Carter in her Langston uniform. The resemblance between Azeil and his mom was obvious. Nia wondered how Elise would see her son now, making connections at the school she'd left behind. A soft knock interrupted her thoughts.
"Nia?" Jackson Carter's voice came through the thin door. "Need anything before I turn in?"
"No, I'm good. Thanks."
A pause. "Got a moment?"
"Yeah." She opened the door to find Jackson standing awkwardly in the hallway, his tall frame hunched in the narrow space.
"I was going to get something to drink. Thought you might want some," he said.
The excuse showed an adult's clumsy attempt at conversation. Nia recognized the move from her mother, a casual suggestion hiding deeper purpose.
"That would be nice."
She followed him to the kitchen where a light buzzed above the small table. Jackson filled two glasses, his back to her. The silence stretched.
"What do you want with my son?" he asked as he handed her a glass. His expression wasn't mean, just curious.
Nia sipped her water. After four years of debate competitions, she knew big moments, when how you started set up everything that followed.
"I'm trying to be there for him," she matched his directness. "He's hurting. Anyone can see that."
Jackson's eyebrows went up. He sat down in a kitchen chair, the legs creaking. "Hurting?" he said. "Boy doesn't even know what real pain is."
Nia sat across from him. "With respect, Mr. Carter, I think he does. He lost his mom. His home. His school. His whole world changed overnight."
Jackson studied her with the careful look of someone used to figuring out problems. "Life's gonna throw everything it can at that boy. This is just the start."
"Speaking from experience?"
Jackson's eyes widened, and a moment of something raw showed on his face before he hid it.
"You're smart," he said. "Remind me of his mother. Always thinking, always worrying about everyone else. Always seeing through people's crap too."
Nia smiled a little. "My mom says I was born arguing before I could talk."
"That fits." Something like amusement softened his worn features. "You care about him. That's clear enough." A pause. "He talk about his mother much?"
The question carried weight, a father wanting access to grief he wasn't allowed to share.
"Some," Nia replied. "Tonight was the first time he really talked about how she died. About the cancer."
Jackson's jaw tightened. "Elise was always careful about everything. Doctor visits, healthy food, all that. But the cancer... by the time they found it..." He trailed off.
"He said she knew during the championship game."
"Sounds like Elise," Jackson nodded. "Always protecting him. Always putting him first." He glanced toward the hallway, then back to Nia. "He's more like her than he knows. Has her heart under all that control."
"He's trying," Nia said. "To figure out where he fits now. Who he is here."
"And you're helping him."
"I'm trying to."
Jackson studied her for a moment, then nodded, a gesture that meant decision rather than agreement. "Good. Boy needs someone in his corner. Someone who sees him, not just what they want from him."
The observation struck Nia as true. Highland Prep had wanted Azeil for his athletic skills. Some kids at Langston saw only the transfer who'd beaten their team. But Jackson Carter, for all his gruff attempts at connection, had nailed something essential about his son's situation.
"I should get some sleep," Nia said. The conversation had found its natural end. She took her glass to the sink, automatic courtesy from years of her mother's training.
"Leave it." Jackson waved her off. "I'll handle it in the morning."
She turned to go, but his voice caught her.
"Nia?"
His expression had softened, lines around his eyes holding traces of joy long past but not erased.
"Thank you," he said. "For seeing him."
No elaboration needed. Just recognition between two people who cared about Azeil, united across age and circumstance by shared concern for the kid trying to find his place.
Nia nodded and headed down the hall. Behind her, Jackson's chair scraped against linoleum. Glasses clinked despite his words about leaving them.
Some habits run deeper than necessity. A father making room for a son he barely knows. A son carrying grief while building new connections. A debate team girl walking home with a transfer student whose walls were finally coming down.
In Azeil's room, she changed into the borrowed clothes. The T-shirt hung to her knees, the shorts needed creative knot-work to stay up. But the cotton was soft, smelled of clean laundry and something distinctly Azeil, not cologne or aftershave, just him.
She settled on the carefully made bed, pulling the blanket up despite the warmth. Sleep came fast in the strange space. Her last thought wasn't about debate prep or midterms, but Azeil's face when he'd shown her to his room, careful hope breaking through his usual control, ice cracking at winter's end.
A small thaw in a house that had felt frozen too long.
Jackson Carter's room lacked the careful organization of Azeil's space. Clothes hung over a chair, dresser drawers sat slightly open, and an alarm clock blinked from some forgotten power outage. The unmade bed, sheets twisted from restless sleep, indicated someone whose energy was devoted to work rather than household tidying.
Azeil lingered in the doorway, absorbing the intimacy of a space he had only glimpsed before. It revealed aspects of his father their awkward conversations never touched, automotive magazines stacked beside the bed, a small radio for late-night company, a framed photo half-hidden beneath wallet and keys.
Something pulled him toward the photo, though he hesitated. The simple frame was dust-free, suggesting regular attention. Azeil lifted it to catch the light, revealing his mother much younger, hair styled differently than he remembered, laughing beside a youthful Jackson Carter. They stood close, heads tilted together in natural ease, some outdoor celebration suggested by blurred background details but unmistakable joy. Not posed but caught mid-laugh, mid-connection.
The photo carried unexpected weight, proof of his parents' happiness he'd never quite visualized. This woman, radiant with laughter, held echoes of the mother he knew yet seemed distinct from the composed attorney who'd raised him. The man beside her, arm around her shoulders, barely resembled the gruff father who struggled across years of distance.
Azeil replaced the photograph carefully, respecting his father's private space. The glimpse into past joy raised more questions than answers, yet didn't deepen his grief over losing his mother. Instead, it offered unexpected context, not excuses for what had unraveled between his parents, but acknowledgment that something real had existed before circumstances changed everything.
He changed quickly into basketball shorts and a t-shirt, conscious of Nia down the hall. The borrowed bed carried his father's scent, motor oil, cigarettes, mint gum, foreign yet familiar after this week. Not comfortable exactly, but no longer alien.
Sleep wouldn't come despite exhaustion from practice and the day's emotional weight. His mind cycled through fragments, conversations with Nia, Coach Booker's strategic praise, his father's quiet hospitality. Each moment felt like movement away from grief's isolation toward something more connected.
After twenty minutes staring at the ceiling, Azeil slipped to the kitchen for water. The living room glowed softly as he passed, revealing his father asleep on the couch, one arm shielding his eyes, remote rising and falling with each breath while the television flickered through late-night programming.
Azeil stopped, watching the unguarded Jackson Carter. His father's face, slack with sleep, held traces of the young man who'd once made Elise laugh with pure joy. Azeil gently removed the remote, set it on the coffee table, and clicked off the lamp. Darkness settled over the room, streetlight filtering through curtains to pattern the carpet. He could see his father's silhouette, one hand curled near his face in unconscious vulnerability.
The kitchen held clean glasses from their earlier conversation, evidence of his father's late-night tidying despite Nia's protests. Small gestures revealing the care beneath Jackson's gruff exterior, affection expressed through actions rather than words.
Down the hall came the soft click of Nia securing his bedroom door, establishing gentle boundaries. The moment felt both ordinary and significant, her presence here proof of trust neither had expected at last week's football game.
Fabric rustled as she settled into his bed. Azeil remained still, struck by the strangeness of another person in his space, invitation rather than invasion.
He fetched water from the refrigerator, returned quietly, and settled onto the borrowed bed. Tomorrow held uncertainty, morning conversations without school's framework, maybe basketball at the nearby court, perhaps photography in the river district. But uncertainty without the familiar dread.
As weariness pulled him toward sleep, something unfamiliar stirred in his consciousness. It took long moments to recognize the sensation so long absent from his awareness: hope. Fragile but persistent, like early growth pushing through winter's last snow. Not the wholesale resurrection impossible after his mother's death, but something new taking root in still-healing ground.
The knowledge that his father slept uncomfortably so Nia could have privacy, that Coach Booker saw his mother's influence in his team choices, that Nia trusted him enough to stay, it all accumulated into something delicate yet undeniable. Three people under one roof, each carrying private weight, yet creating temporary shelter through simple, imperfect connection.
As sleep finally claimed him, Azeil's last thought wasn't of loss but possibility. Tomorrow would bring its challenges, but for now, something fragile had taken root.
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Between Worlds is a fiction novel by Craig Griffin. New chapters post every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Subscribe to get them delivered to your inbox.