She'd always known her excuses would run out eventually. Truth be told, she'd never had that many in the first place, but Ana had stretched them paper-thin through the long days which grew into months. And now, more than a year had passed – her excuses were barely holding together under slow-building pressure, and she had to cave in before her own conscience was torn apart along with flimsy reason. So, she'd made up her mind.

Then faltered. Instead of heading home herself, she'd sent a letter in her stead, to the one whom she assumed would take the news better. Ana first waited for her message to be delivered, then for an answer which would never come. Of course it wouldn't – she hadn't provided a return address, or even asked for a reply. Just an explanation, and…not much else. At times, she wondered if she should've written more.

Ana left it alone after that, but apparently, her partner-in-crime didn't share the same idea. Jack had nagged her endlessly since she'd dropped that letter in a postbox, and after a month of his pestering, Ana decided that any degree of disappointment or anger she might receive from her family, would be better than the old man's constant badgering.

The day before she would leave for Cairo, Ana sought some peace in city, wandering the streets in an attempt to walk off the nervousness twisting her stomach into knots. Distracted by her troubles, Ana's feet brought her naturally to the mosque which she'd frequented in the past few months. She took her usual spot in the corner of the hall, waiting quietly as others streamed in, and followed in now-familiar prayers which fell from her lips more smoothly than it'd ever done in her life.

But the prayers which had been so useful in calming her before, were ineffective this time. When the congregation started to disperse at the end, Ana lingered within the grounds for the first time, slipping up to the second floor in search of some privacy in this holy place. The balcony she found had baskets of flowers hung on the guardrails, and she had her fingers on soft purple petals when a familiar voice spoke behind her.

"May I help you, child?"

Ana snorted involuntarily as she glanced back at the aged imam walking into the balcony. "I haven't been a 'child' for a long time."

"To this old man, you still are," he replied with a smile, and a twinkle in his eye. "This is the first time you've stayed after prayers."

"I thought I'd just take in the sights…for once."

"And, if I may say so – I have noticed your troubled expression for quite some time now." His smile didn't falter when Ana raised a brow. "I make an effort to get to know all who visit this mosque – even those who do not approach me. And in all my years here, only a few have ever wanted to avoid my attention."

"Perhaps with good reason."

"No reason behind a need for privacy is a bad one." He shrugged. "But if I may help take some of the burden off your mind…"

Ana sighed, but refrained from rolling her eyes at the offer, knowing his good intentions. This imam was, after all, beloved in this neighbourhood for good reason. "I'm afraid there is nothing you can do to help ease my mind."

"You will not know until you've tried."

Careful to keep her back to the man, Ana kept quiet as she ran her fingertips along the flower petals. Her throat tightened as she pieced her words together. "There is something I must do," she began, hushed. "And it frightens me."

"Why?"

The mere thought of explaining herself – and the time required to do so – nearly turned Ana from this conversation. But she pondered over it, and relented with a simplified account. "My family. I have not been home in long time. And let's just say…they have reason enough to believe that I will never go back. That I am unable to."

The imam hummed a short note of acknowledgement.

"My relationship with them has been…you could say, strained. Very strained, thanks to me. They probably are angry at me. And they may be even more so, when I go back to them."

"Is this what frightens you, then? That they will be angry at your return?"

"Basically," Ana replied drily. "Thing is, I love them. They have been the reason I've fought so hard for the last few years – few decades. But they may not feel the same. They may think that I abandoned them, that I'd forgotten them. And…" She swallowed. "I'm afraid they will abandon me in return, after everything that I've done."

"But they may accept your return as well."

A tired huff. "That is unlikely."

"And 'unlikely' still suggests a chance," he replied. "You will never know until you've tried."

Ana shot him a flat stare. "Is that your favourite piece of advice, old man?"

The imam smiled. "Yes. Do you know why? It is such a simple fact of life – so simple, in fact, that it is overlooked by many. And they always think of me a wise sage for merely reminding them of the obvious." He shrugged. "You will never know until you've tried. It is only the fear of failure which prevents you from taking that important step."

"And what if I fear losing everything I hold dear?" Ana uttered under her breath.

Her companion gazed at her thoughtfully, and heaved a slow sigh as he looked out from the balcony. "You know, my wife passed on…three years ago. Cancer," he said, almost peacefully. "It has been a very long three years. Though I have come to terms with her death, I still wish for a chance to see her again, to make my life…whole once more. But I know it can never happen. It is impossible. Which is not quite the same for you."

"Now you're going to tell me not to pass up this chance you will never get," Ana supplied, tone flat.

"Yes," he replied simply. "This is an opportunity, child. Don't squander what many of us will never have." He clasped his hands together. "No family deserves to be broken apart, not when it can be mended again. And if it indeed ends in failure, well. At least you will know that you have tried."

"…I could've gone without that last bit, old man."

He shrugged. "It is only a practical thought."

Kamilah was at the bookcase in the living room, retrieving a notebook when the back door's softer bell rang. She frowned, perplexed – the back door rarely saw any use. Only Kamilah and Fareeha would use it to enter the small garden in the backyard, or Safiya and Zahra when they had a surprise planned. But given that Fareeha was currently in Giza on a work assignment, and she'd just said goodnight to her sisters-in-law via phonecall, Kamilah guessed that it was probably not her family at the door.

Growing wary, Kamilah set her notebook down and padded silently to the back door. The hallway was sufficiently lit from the living room, but when Kamilah pressed her eye up to the peephole, it was barely any use. The lights outside weren't on, but Kamilah could just make out the silhouette of a headscarf, and a healthy fringe of white hair peeping out from beneath.

Figuring that an old woman could do little harm – and perhaps foolishly trusting her own rusty combat skills – Kamilah cautiously unlocks the door, swinging it open slowly. She reaches up to flick the wall switch, and her lips had parted to speak, but Kamilah froze when the lights above flickered on. Dark brown eyes met light copper in wordless disbelief, and Kamilah's head grew dangerously light, before snapping back into focus when her visitor spoke.

"Milah–"

The door slammed shut.

Kamilah's feet moved of their own volition – one step back, then another, and another. Her mind was in a frantic, chaotic whirl. That…face. That rough, warm voice. That was Ana. Ana, who stood before her in the flesh. Ana, who looked back into her eyes and broke into that shy, sheepish smile from their youth. Ana, who was supposed to be dead–

No. No, no, this wasn't… Was this a dream? Some…freakishly hyper-realistic dream, it must be–

The familiar voice called out to her a few times, before the door which Kamilah had left unlocked swung open. And there she was – Ana. Alive. Standing tall and as strong as ever. Peering at Kamilah from beneath a blue headscarf and…an eyepatch? Ana shut the door behind herself, and took one cautious step after another towards Kamilah – who mirrored the motion thoughtlessly, driven by an instinct which demanded distance from this…anomaly.

"Milah, I know this is…a lot to take in. But it's me. I'm alive."

This was wrong. This was all so, so wrong. Ana was supposed to be dead. Her wife was dead. Dead. Dead.

"Kamilah," Ana continued to speak, a stiff note of tension entering her calming tone. "Relax. Please let go of the knife."

A moment of confusion, then Kamilah glanced down at her hand – which rested on the kitchen's bar counter. She backed so far away, driven by Ana's slow approach, that she hadn't even noticed she'd reached the kitchen. Or that her hand had run across the fruit knife she'd left on the counter earlier that day, and was now holding it by the handle in a trembling, white-knuckled grip.

"Milah, please. Listen to me," Ana said, deliberately slow as she raised a hand. "Stay calm. Don't do anything rash."

A sudden, unexpected pop of indignation cracked in her chest, and Kamilah finally rasped, "You're supposed to be dead."

The corner of Ana's lips flickered up in a half-hearted smile. "Well, I'm not." The lilt of humour in her voice died quickly, as Ana hesitated. "Never was."

Her words delivered a gut punch which left Kamilah winded from its implications. Her heart pounded and swelled from a dizzying slew of emotions crashing in an incoherent mess, and the sight of Ana taking one more step towards her, hands reaching out with all-too-familiar concern in that gaze, snapped the straining strings of a base instinct.

Fruit knife clattering to the floor, Kamilah stepped around Ana in a wide berth. And before Ana could reach forward to clasp her arm, Kamilah turned and fled up the stairs rapidly, followed by a short run towards her room and another slam of a door.

Hands wringing together painfully, turning the skin of her knuckles red, Kamilah paced jaggedly around the room until her eyes landed on the handphone on the study desk. She grabbed it immediately, and tapped on Fareeha's contact, making a call to her daughter. The line rang for the longest time, before she was directed to voicemail.

Damn it. Damn it!

With shaking fingers, Kamilah ended the call, and made another. She pressed the phone hard against her ear, biting down against the quiet sobs rising to accompany the frustrated tears welling in her eyes.

Please, Fareeha. Please…

Fareeha rode at top speed back home, toeing a fine line with her speed meter as she wove dangerously between traffic. Normally, she'd be more cautious with her driving, but a sharp unease in the pit of her stomach forced her onward.

She'd just ended an extended patrol route around the Temple of Anubis, and returned to her quarters where she found on her phone a dozen notifications of missed calls from Kamilah – which was uncharacteristic of her mother. Kamilah always left only one or two missed calls in anyone's call log, figuring the person would call back when they had the time. She'd never blown Fareeha's phone up like this before. Fareeha already figured that it must've been an emergency, but after a call home, she'd been left unsettled herself.

"Come home, please. She's here. She's here."

And it was with her mother's weak, quivering voice in her head that Fareeha flew back to Cairo on her bike, only bothering to slow down when she finally reached the home's garage. Tossing her helmet aside and ripping her boots off, Fareeha hurried into the house. But all thoughts of finding her mother were dashed when she laid eyes on the woman seated upon the living room's sofa.

Fareeha stopped dead in her tracks, staring at the old woman who stared back at her. She'd known. Even though Kamilah hadn't specified who 'she' was, Fareeha had known deep in her gut exactly who had caused Kamilah's distress. And now, she was reminded of the folded letter which rested in the bottom of her bag – a letter which she'd received and read over a month ago, then tossed into her pack in anger, where it'd lain forgotten. Until now.

Ana Amari sat cross-legged on the sofa, wearing a long-sleeved sweater and pants, head wrapped loosely in a scarf and an eyepatch worn over the right eye. She looked at Fareeha in reciprocal silence for the longest time, before a gentle smile cracked the placid expression on her face. Lowering her feet to the carpet, Ana stood smoothly from the couch.

"Fareeha."

The sound of her name, spoken in that voice, startled Fareeha from her stupor. She backed away from Ana, shaking her head wordlessly.

"Wait," Ana said as she tried to move close. "Just let me–"

"No."

The sharp reply left Fareeha's mouth before she even realised it, but no regret followed her reaction. Turning around and bounding up the stairs without a single glance backwards, Fareeha made for the master bedroom, and found her mother already waiting for her. Kamilah looked strained and pale under the dim glow of the table lamp, but Fareeha caught the briefest hint of relief in her mother's eyes as Kamilah flew towards her, clutching at her as she hugged her mother tightly in return.

"She–, she's–," was all Kamilah could croak against her shoulder, but Fareeha nodded.

"Yeah. She's here," Fareeha whispered, rocking her mother gently as an odd sense of calm descended upon her. "She's...here. Alive."

She heard a strangled intake of breath on her shoulder, and squeezed Kamilah firmly in her arms, when a muffled sniff followed. "It's alright, mama," Fareeha said, rubbing Kamilah's back gently. "It's gonna be okay. I'm here now."

Things had gone…about as well as Ana had expected.

Kamilah had reacted as if she were a ghost, refusing to let Ana get close, overtaken by visible fear and panic. It'd hurt then, to induce such discomfort in her wife, soon mixed with a fleeting flash of anger in Kamilah's eyes when the realisation that Ana had stayed away on purpose sank in. In a way, seeing that old steel rear its head in Kamilah was a small comfort, but she could scarcely feel relief when her wife had skirted around her like she was a leper, then hid in the bedroom which Kamilah refused to open despite Ana's pleas.

Ana spent the first hour sitting outside the bedroom, hearing nothing coming from within, before deciding to give Kamilah some space and retreating to the living room. It was only a matter of hours before she'd heard the faint roar of Fareeha's bike pulling into the garage, then came face-to-face with a daughter who showed less of her mother's confusion, and more of the anger she'd no doubt nurtured in the past month…after Ana had sent the letter.

As expected, Fareeha left Ana alone in the living room to tend to Kamilah – something which Ana was grateful for. Because Ana had expected anger, disappointment, hate from her daughter. She'd readied herself mentally to withstand Fareeha's outburst which was sure to come. What she was not prepared to deal with, was seeing that tattoo beneath Fareeha's eye – inspired by Ana's, no doubt. It should've brought a measure of happiness, perhaps, to know that despite their clashes, Fareeha still bore enough respect and love for Ana to wear her signature mark.

But it was the last thing Ana wanted to see on her daughter. Surely Fareeha should've understood that following in Ana's footsteps was folly. To chase after the ideals of a bygone era, after she'd watched it crash and burn. Why did she do it?

Ana was left reeling from the discovery, wrangling with her own conflict, and had barely composed herself when Fareeha finally walked down the stairs. Each step was ponderous, and Ana stared right back into Fareeha's guarded eyes as her daughter approached her – though not too close, standing at a distance from the sofa where Ana sat. Seconds ticked into minutes, until Ana decided to break the heavy silence.

"You look…different," Ana spoke carefully, eye coming to rest on Fareeha's tattoo.

All she got was a tilt of the head in reply. The set in Fareeha's jaw, and the frown was warning enough for Ana to veer away from the subject for now. No need to throw fuel onto a fire, after all.

"It is good to see you again," she continued. "You've been well, I hope?"

Again, no answer. Like squeezing water from a rock, but past experience told Ana that this rock would yield soon. Though in what manner, there was no telling.

"I know this may be…confusing for you. For all you knew, I was supposed to be dead. But I can explain–"

"Why are you here," came the low growl.

It was Ana's turn to tilt her head. "To see you and your mother, of course."

"Why are you here, now," Fareeha intoned. "Now, after a whole year of letting us think you were dead."

"I have my reasons," Ana said slowly, though Fareeha's narrowed eyes told that she might've made a misstep. "The circumstances of my supposed 'death', and the year after that, have been…incredibly difficult. In short, I thought it would be best for all of us that I was believed dead."

Ana paused at Fareeha's derisive snort, but no anger flared at her daughter's reaction. "But I realised it would be unfair to you and your mother to let you believe that lie. And, though you may think otherwise, I still love the both of you. I could hardly bear the thought of never seeing you again."

Practiced words which Ana had whispered under her breath for the past month, but it seemed to have no effect on Fareeha, whose glare only grew darker the more she spoke.

"And that letter," Fareeha snapped. "What the hell was that for?"

Ana gave a wan smile. "A heads-up, if nothing else. I thought you could bear the news better–"

"I thought it was some sick joke."

"It wasn't."

"I wish it was. Because it would mean some asshole just wanted to mess with me," Fareeha ground through her teeth. "But no, it had to come from my mother, who pretended she was fucking dead while we were all back here, wasting our time mourning you like you were actually fucking dead!"

"Fareeha–"

"Like you actually deserve all that fucking grief you caused!"

Fareeha had raised her voice, but kept it at a controlled, hushed shout – careful not to disturb Kamilah on the upper floor. And the thought brought an ache to Ana's chest.

"Fareeha, I know you're angry. Just let me explain–"

"No! I've spent my entire life listening to you explain away every single thing you do, and I'm done with it! It's always been all about you, you, and what about us?" Fareeha jabbed the tips of her fingers against her own chest. "What do I care about you, when I was left to hold myself and this entire fucking place together? When I couldn't even fucking grieve properly because my mother needed me more than I needed myself? When I was terrified out of my goddamned mind that I would lose the only mother I have left when the first one died? Pretended to die."

Fareeha spat the word in accusation, and Ana accepted it, as she did with the rest of her daughter's heart-spilling tirade.

"I know it's been incredibly hard on you–"

"No, you don't."

"And I am sorry."

"You aren't sorry for shit."

The first thread of indignation coiled around Ana's heart, but she let it go as quickly as it came. "But I want to make amends."

"Make amends? Now?" Fareeha barked a bitter, cynical laugh. "After all you've done, I love that you think you can just waltz back in here, and just make everything right again. Like it's nothing for the great Ana Amari, huh?"

"Fareeha," Ana said, allowing her voice to grow hard. "We've been fighting for years now. Aren't you sick of it?" She watched as Fareeha clenched her jaw. "No matter what you think of me, I want you to know that I am sincere. I want to make things right between us again–"

"Yeah?" Fareeha cut in, that bitter curve still on her lips. "Then maybe you should've stayed dead."

A sudden stab and twist of the knife, and Ana could only watch wordlessly as Fareeha turned away from her, going up the stairs once more. At the loud thud of a door being shut, Ana heaved a slow sigh, and sank back into the soft cushions of the sofa. Her throat tightened, and she blinked away the blurriness in her eye.

It was past midnight, but Kamilah could scarcely find the peace of mind needed for her to lie in bed, and drift off to sleep. She was tired in every sense of the word, but a part of her mind was still hyper-aware of the woman who was still in the living room. Ana, her wife, returned from the dead–, no. Ana, who had never been dead, who had spent the past year away from her family, when they needed her most.

Kamilah's fear had fallen away long ago, after Fareeha's return. After listening to the muffled sounds of an argument from the lower floor. If anything, Fareeha's confrontation with the woman proved beyond doubt that she wasn't some unreal manifestation from Kamilah's dreams, come to haunt her. But with that small comfort came a line of thought that was too much for Kamilah to bear.

Ana had so much to answer for. So much explanation to give before Kamilah was crushed by the reality of her wife's actions. But she couldn't trust herself to face Ana just yet – even the thought of facing her wife made her feel weak, and she knew she would crumble as surely as she had when Ana first appeared at the door.

She was thrown a line, though, when Fareeha had walked into her room earlier, jaw set. Her daughter handed her a folded piece of paper, then left without a word. Since then, Kamilah had read and re-read the letter until the words were burned into her mind, even though they offered little explanation in the way of Ana's survival.

'My dearest Fareeha,

Every mother hopes for a better life for her daughter. I was willing to fight, and die for it. I taught you that there is nothing more important than protecting the ones you love. You grew up surrounded by heroes. They filled your head with stories of adventure and dreams of glory. One day, you wanted to join them. But it was not the life I wanted for you.

I never told you of the weight I carry from all those I killed, to keep everyone safe. But I always did what was asked of me. Until one day, I could not take the life I needed to. I hesitated, and everything changed.

The people who I was supposed to protect, died. And I was left behind, gravely wounded. The world believed that I was dead. I thought, perhaps, that was for the best. I've lost so much in my life. I've said goodbye to so many friends. I've buried the ones closest to me. But for all that I've lost, I know that there are still people who need to be protected. And so, I continue to fight.

I hope that you will understand.'

Kamilah's heart ached as she read the neat script of Ana's writing once more. She'd known Ana had changed in her time with Overwatch, that she bore unspeakable burdens alone out of necessity, which had worn on her mind throughout the years. Kamilah was angry – at herself, for being unable to stop the downhill slide of Ana's life, which culminated in her present state. And she was angry at Ana, who knew exactly how her life of heroics had hurt her and her family so, but refused to let it go even after all of this.

She took a sharp inhale, then folded the letter in her hands, letting it drop to the floor where she sat by the bed. Part of her wanted dearly to march downstairs and demand answers, but another part didn't even want this chance to get answers.

Kamilah's deepest, dearest wish had finally come true – and she didn't want it anymore.

A/N: Happy New Year, everyone! We going choochoo into the next decade!