Callan’s Memoriam

POV: Malia 

​The wind off Bass Strait was biting, carrying the sharp, clean scent of salt spray and damp earth. Perched on a high, secluded cliff overlooking the endless expanse of the Southern Ocean, the memorial garden was the only place in the world that felt entirely untouched by the violence of our lives.

​We had spent three weeks building it stone by stone. There were no armed guards posted at the perimeter, no hidden sniper nests, and no ledgers of blood or debt. Just winding stone pathways, beds of white hydrangeas, and a low marble bench facing directly out toward the horizon where the sun dipped below the water in a blaze of amber and violet.

​In the center of the garden stood a polished granite monolith, simple and stark, bearing a single engraved inscription: Callan Calaby. Brother. Protector. At Peace.

​I knelt on the damp grass, placing a small bouquet of wild blue irises at the base of the stone. My fingers traced his name, the cold granite biting into my skin, but for the first time in years, the pain didn't feel sharp and suffocating. It felt like an ache that had finally found room to heal.

​Footsteps crunched softly on the gravel path behind me. I didn't need to turn around to know it was Jarrah. He walked with a familiar, heavy grace, stopping a few feet away to give me my space before stepping up beside me.

​He wasn't wearing his usual armor of tailored suits or combat gear. He wore a simple black wool coat, his dark hair ruffled by the fierce ocean gale. He knelt beside me on the grass, ignoring the dampness, and placed a single heavy silver signet ring Callan’s ring, recovered from the wreckage of our old life next to the flowers.

​"He would have hated the flowers," Jarrah said softly, a faint, melancholic smile touching the corners of his mouth. "He would have said they were too soft for a Calaby."

​"He would have," I whispered, a tear slipping down my cheek, catching the fading light of the sunset before I wiped it away. "Callan hated anything that looked like surrender. But this isn't surrender, Jarrah. It's a resting place."

​"It's more than that," Jarrah said, turning his head to look at me, his dark eyes reflecting the fading light with an intensity that pierced straight through my soul. He reached out, his warm, calloused hand gently cupping my chin, tilting my face toward his. "It's a promise."

​"What kind of promise?"

​"A vow," he answered, his voice steady, absolute, and echoing with a quiet power that commanded the wind itself to listen. "Every breath I take from this day forward, every ounce of power we hold, every drop of justice we enforce in this city will be used to honor his memory. We will build a world where kids like Callan don't have to die in the crossfire of syndicate wars. We protect what's ours. We build. We endure."

​I looked into his eyes and saw no shadows, only a profound, unshakeable devotion that matched my own.

​"He’s watching us, you know," I whispered, leaning my forehead gently against Jarrah’s shoulder.

​"Good," Jarrah murmured, wrapping his arms securely around my waist, pulling me tight against his chest as the ocean waves crashed against the cliffs far below. "Let him see that his sister is safe. Let him see that she is loved, completely and without reservation, for the rest of our days."

​We stayed there on the cliffside as the sun vanished below the horizon, wrapped in each other's arms, surrounded by the quiet ghosts of the past and the unbreakable promise of a future we had fought through hell to claim.