HHWM | Chapter 22: Across Three Years of Silence

The moment the plane touched down in New Zealand, Greg was greeted by a wind so sharp it felt like a physical reprimand. He had questioned his decision to accept this post a thousand times after the divorce, but ultimately, he knew it was the only thing that would stop him from crawling back to the ruins of his family.

He had left his life in the Philippines behind like a ghost. He arrived alone, without the laughter of his son, Gio, and without a single word of farewell from Mayette, who had permanently barred the door to her heart after the accident nearly claimed his life. Part of him wished the crash had finished the job; then, he wouldn’t have to endure the vast, echoing hollow that now defined his existence. But this was the penance he had chosen. This was the cost of his sins.

As he cleared the arrival area, a woman stood holding a small placard with his name. She was his new secretary—polished, corporate, and entirely unfamiliar.

“Sir Greg?” she asked. He nodded. “Welcome to Wellington, Sir. I’ve been assigned to handle your orientation today.”

Greg followed her to the waiting vehicle in silence. As they drove along the highway, his eyes drifted across the Wellington skyline—houses clinging to the steep hillsides, a sky the color of wet slate, and a sea that shimmered with a cold, electric gray. It was a new page in a book he wasn’t sure he wanted to read.

The secretary’s voice droned on, explaining the new branch, the team, and the week’s schedule. Greg listened, but the details refused to stick. All he could hear was his own breathing—a ragged sound he couldn’t quite identify as exhaustion or fear.

When they reached the suburb of Kilbirnie, the car pulled up to a house the company had leased for him. It was a charming place with a manicured garden and wide windows designed to drink in the natural light. It was the kind of home he had once dreamed of building for Mayette and Gio—complete with a playroom for his son and a garden for his wife. Now, those dreams were buried in the soil of the country he had fled.

He stepped inside and closed the door. The silence was immediate and immense, broken only by the low hum of the refrigerator. He walked toward the small room off the hallway—the space intended to be Gio’s playroom. It was empty. No toys. No laughter. No life. He gripped the doorframe and exhaled, feeling the definitive line between before and after. He was no longer part of the world he left behind, and here, there was no one waiting for him but his own quiet.

Three years passed.

Greg slowly acclimated to the rhythm of a solitary life in New Zealand. His body had healed, but his heart remained numb through the long, frost-bitten nights. He woke early, worked late, and cooked meals he couldn’t taste. No visitors. No friends. Nothing but a clean house that he couldn’t bring himself to call a home.

Every night, he would hold his phone, scrolling through Mayette’s updates of Gio. It was his only window into his son’s growth. Occasionally, there were video calls—short, clinical exchanges permitted by Mayette.

“Hi Daddy, I made a robot today,” Gio would say.

Greg would smile, even as the screen felt like a cage. He couldn’t explain to a child that everything he should have witnessed in person was now limited to a handful of pixels.

One evening, while scrolling through Gio’s gallery, he saw a photo of the boy with Mayette and a man—her new partner. They were smiling, standing close together, looking like a complete, unbroken family.

Greg set the phone down and breathed deeply. He expected to feel a surge of jealousy, but instead, he felt a dull, aching relief. Mayette had escaped the wreckage he had caused. Gio would have a father who was present. It was a jagged truth, but it was the one they deserved. He had a high salary, a title, and a luxury home, but he knew the center of his life was a void that no amount of success could fill.

One morning, he traveled to a business conference in another city—a routine part of his corporate life. He entered the vast hall, a sea of attendees and white noise.

As he approached the registration table, Greg stopped. Amidst the chatter, a woman stood at the far end of the hall. She wore a dark coat and held a black folder, her back turned as she spoke to an organizer. There was something in the way she stood—the poise, the rhythm of her movements—that tugged at a memory long dormant.

He couldn’t see her face, yet he couldn’t look away. It felt as if a hand had reached into his chest and given a slow, deliberate squeeze. His fingers trembled slightly. The pulse he had spent three years deadening suddenly roared to life.

Sensing his gaze, the woman turned. It was a slow, deliberate movement. The light hit the side of her face, and for a few seconds, Greg’s mind refused to register what he was seeing. Then, as she turned fully toward him, the air left his lungs. The cavernous conference hall felt as small as a closet.

The eyes were the same, but the fire and resentment that once burned within them had been replaced by a deep, terrifying calm. There was no anger left. No plea for attention. No trace of the girl he had left in the wake of his ruin.

As she stepped away from the organizer, she looked directly at Greg. It was a gaze that neither invited nor avoided. It was the look of someone who had outlived their past.

Greg didn’t know if he should move. All he knew was that the name he had spent three years trying to forget had just become his entire world again.

Selene.