Mission Forensic
Part 35: A Morning Made of Mercy
Morning did not rush.
It unfolded.
A pale, winter gold crept through the sheer curtains of Ahana and Shawn’s flat, catching lightly on the steel kettle left to warm on the stove. The air was soft and hushed, as though the world knew someone inside was coming back from a night that had been too long.
The doorbell rang once—no urgency, just a request.
Ahana opened it to find Edward, shoulders drawn with exhaustion, hair slightly disordered from his walk through the cold. In one hand, he held a small bouquet of white lilies—not dramatic, not grand, just familiar.
The other hand held a thermos of chai, steam still trapped inside.
Ahana didn’t ask questions. She understood the language of late-night emotions better than most.
“Come in,” she said.
Edward stepped inside. Shawn, who was frying something in the kitchen, peeked over his shoulder.
“Oh,” Shawn announced, voice theatrical. “The Prodigal Research Scholar returns.”
“Shawn,” Ahana said firmly.
“What?” Shawn lifted his hands. “Emotions are happening. I am buffering with humor.”
But even his eyes were gentle.
Catherine stepped out of the bedroom.
She wasn’t dramatic about it. No tears. No stiff silence. Just tired.
She saw the lilies.
Then Edward.
He placed them on the dining table—deliberately, almost careful enough to be reverent.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Not rushed.
Not softened.
Clear.
Catherine held his gaze for a long moment. The room felt like a line held between two hands—could tighten, could break, could be tied again.
“I didn’t want you to choose me over your work,” she said quietly.
“I wanted you to choose the moment with me.”
Edward nodded. His voice when it came was steady:
“I know. You’re right.”
She blinked once—she hadn’t expected no defense, no justification.
He continued, voice low:
“Once a week—no meetings, no calls, no slides, no drafts. I’ll tell Ridhima ma’am today. I won’t let the rest of the world fill every space we’re meant to have.”
Catherine’s lips parted—surprised not by the promise, but by how simply he gave it.
“Okay,” she said. “But we hold each other to it. No rescues. No excuses.”
“Agreed,” he answered.
The quiet between them warmed—not fixed, but softening.
Shawn leaned out from the kitchen.
“Now that emotional reconciliation is complete, can everyone sit down before I burn the eggs?”
Catherine huffed a laugh despite herself.
Ahana shook her head, but the corner of her mouth tugged upward.
They sat.
Breakfast was simple—eggs, toast, chai poured into mismatched cups.
No one tried to make the conversation profound.
Shawn: “This toast is exactly medium-brown. Please acknowledge my greatness.”
Ahana: “You plugged in the wrong heater and tripped the fuse last week. Sit down.”
Catherine, quietly amused: “He did?”
Shawn, betrayed: “I bring bread-based joy to this household. This is how I am repaid.”
Edward listened—grateful for the ordinariness.
When Catherine glanced at him, just briefly, he held her gaze, not possessive, not pleading—present.
That was the difference.
Later, when Catherine went to wash her cup, Edward followed—not close enough to corner, just close enough so their words didn’t have to travel far.
“Can I ask something?” he said.
She nodded, placing the cup gently in the sink.
“What hurt most?” he asked—not as a challenge, but as someone willing to hear the answer.
Catherine breathed in—slow, steady.
“It wasn’t the work,” she said. “I know how much it matters to you. I love you for how much it matters to you.”
He swallowed.
“It was that… you didn’t look back when you walked away. Not even once.”
Edward’s chest tightened.
He nodded, jaw shifting—not from anger, but from understanding settling in deep.
“I won’t do that again,” he said.
Then, softer:
“I’m here. Fully.”
This time, she believed him.
She didn’t move into his arms; she simply reached out and took his sleeve—lightly, but with meaning.
Sometimes love doesn’t need a gesture.
Sometimes it needs permission to stay.
Later, the four stepped out into the winter afternoon.
They walked to the second-hand book street near the metro station, where sellers stacked paperbacks in uneven towers. Catherine found a worn toxicology manual, its pages underlined in someone else’s careful handwriting.
Edward took it gently from her hand and bought it with no commentary.
Just a quiet understanding.
Shawn tried to convince Ahana to buy a book of poetry titled I Love You But You’re Making Me Sad.
Ahana rejected it instantly.
“Because it’s inaccurate,” she said.
“You should see the things I endure,” Shawn murmured, but he paid anyway.
Their laughter moved with them, easy and unforced, like breath returning after being held too long.
As evening settled, they drove to India Gate, where winter air smelled of roasting corn and distant fog. They sat on a low stone wall, sharing masala bhutta, fingers warming against the paper wrap.
Nobody hurried the night.
Nobody filled silence just to avoid it.
The city’s lights flickered in the distance, and for the first time in days, Edward felt the tension inside him loosen—not vanish, but soften around the edges.
Catherine leaned her head against his shoulder.
Not forgiving.
Simply finding her way back.
He placed his hand lightly over hers.
Not claiming.
Simply meeting her there.
Night settled like a blanket pulled gently over the city, soft and blue at the edges. The four of them stepped back into Ahana and Shawn’s flat together, still wrapped in the warmth of streetlights and roasted corn and slow walking. No one tried to name whatever had shifted. No one tried to fix anything. What needed mending was not broken—only tender.
Ahana moved first, wordless efficiency guiding her hands. She drew out the spare mattress, the old one with the cotton flattened in familiar places. Shawn tossed pillows onto it with theatrical flourish, as though performing for an invisible audience.
“You two stay in the hall,” Ahana said, locking eyes with Edward and Shawn in equal measure. “I refuse to endure his snoring from three feet away.”
Shawn gasped, clutching his chest. “Defamation.”
Ahana didn’t blink.
Edward didn’t smile.
Catherine did, though—just a small one, the kind that doesn’t break the silence, only warms it.
The mattress settled onto the floor with a soft thud. The lights dimmed to a quiet amber. The city outside hummed, muffled through curtains.
Edward lowered himself onto the mattress, moving slowly, not wanting to disturb the air. Shawn dropped beside him, still muttering something about respiratory injustice.
Catherine lingered at the doorway to the hall.
Her hair fell loose down her shoulder, the lilies she carried earlier now resting in a vase on Ahana’s windowsill. Her hands were empty, but something in her posture was not.
She looked at Edward.
He looked up.
No apology.
No ache tugging backward.
No pleading forward.
Just the soft, steady recognition of someone who knew him—and was still there.
He lifted his hand—not reaching, simply resting it palm-up on the blanket, an offering rather than a request.
She didn’t take it.
She didn’t need to.
She nodded once, slow and small, the kind of gesture two people build years around.
“Goodnight,” she said.
“Goodnight,” he answered.
She turned toward the bedroom.
He let his hand fall back beside him.
Shawn was already half-asleep, breathing deep and uneven—not snoring, not exactly, but hovering near it in spirit.
Ahana switched off the last lamp, the room falling into a quiet that felt like a held breath.
Catherine’s door closed.
Edward exhaled—not relief, not regret—just the weight of being human.
They weren’t fixed.
They weren’t broken.
They were on their way back.
Tomorrow, they would walk home together.
Tonight, they simply slept under the same roof, breathing the same gentle December air.
And that was enough.
For now.
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