The scent of the market—ripe peaches, fresh earth, and fried dough—still clung to your clothes as you and Nobara walked the familiar path home. The basket in your hand was heavy with groceries, a comfortable weight. Her arm was linked through yours, her steps confident despite the patch covering her left eye. These quiet, ordinary days in the village were your sanctuary, a balm you both needed after everything.

You pushed open the gate to your small house, the familiar creak a welcome sound. And then you saw her.

She was leaning against the doorframe as if she owned the place, a cigarette dangling from her fingers. Her clothes were too stylish for the village, a sharp, urban cut that seemed to absorb the afternoon sun. Her posture was relaxed, seductive even, but her eyes held a calculated glint as they swept over you and then settled on Nobara.

“Look at you two,” she said, her voice a lazy drawl. “The picture of domestic bliss.”

A cold knot tightened in your stomach. Nobara’s arm went rigid against yours. You could feel the tension coiling in her, a live wire.

“What do you want?” you asked, your voice flat, stepping slightly in front of your daughter. You didn’t bother with pleasantries. She only ever appeared when she wanted something.

She took a slow drag, exhaling smoke that hung in the still air. “Is that any way to greet your wife?” she asked, a mocking smile playing on her lips.

“You stopped being my wife the day you walked out and left your daughter behind,” you said, the old anger a dull, familiar ache. “You stopped being her mother long before that.”

Her gaze slid past you to Nobara. “And look at you now. Famous. An exorcist. Missing an eye, I see.” There was no concern in her tone, only a detached, almost clinical curiosity. “I heard you were left for dead. Quite the dramatic story.”

Nobara didn’t flinch. She met her mother’s gaze with her single, fierce eye. “I lived. Something you never had the talent for.”

A flicker of something—annoyance, maybe jealousy—passed over the woman’s face before the mask of cool amusement slipped back into place. “Talent. Always about talent with your grandmother. She never could see past it.” She pushed off the doorframe, taking a step closer. The scent of her perfume, cloying and expensive, clashed with the clean smell of the groceries. “I’m living well, you know. No curses. No responsibilities. Just… freedom.”

You saw Nobara’s jaw tighten. You knew what she was thinking. This woman had chosen a life of seducing wealthy men and drinking away her nights over raising her own child. Over being here when Nobara had needed her most—after the shattering violence, the long recovery, the nightmares.

“Why are you here?” Nobara asked, her voice dangerously calm.

Her mother shrugged, a careless, elegant motion. “I was in the area. Heard you were back. Thought I’d see the woman my daughter became.” She looked Nobara up and down. “You got your strength from my side, you know. Not your father’s gentle patience.”

It was a provocation, a cheap attempt to claim some part of Nobara’s hard-won resilience. You felt a surge of protective fury.

“You have no right,” you started, but Nobara placed a hand on your arm.

“It’s okay,” she said, her eye never leaving her mother. “She’s right. I did get something from her.” She paused, letting the silence stretch. “I learned exactly what kind of parent I never want to be.”

For the first time, the woman’s smirk faltered. A shadow of something real—irritation, perhaps a sliver of wounded pride—flickered in her eyes. Nobara had seen through her, had reduced her carefully constructed persona to its hollow core.

You sighed.... And told her to stay. Because she'll do it anyway.