"Mama!"

The door shut behind him and he watched as his mother stopped chopping when he'd called to her. She didn't leave the kitchen counter, though, but she did turn to him with a smile.

"Back so soon? I thought you boys would still be running around shooting each other. There's still light outside."

She was right. The evening sunlight glinted behind her shoulder and bathed the room in its glow, but he scrunched his face at her and shrugged. "I wanted to play some more, but they got hungry so they left me all alone."

She laughed, the tinkling silvery tones that he would remember until he died. He would recall it when the bullet would pierce his leg during the war and would force him to fall forward face-first onto the wet, cold mud. While he waited for the medic to tend to him, he forced his mind off his injury and remembered those lovely memories of his childhood instead.

Later, when he was deep into the most grueling part of his training—withstanding the inhuman anti-interrogation tactics his superiors put him through—he would recall her laughter. It kept him going, made it easier to endure the pain of little cuts on his skin, of being unable to breathe, of wishing to die than suffer some more. He tolerated the torture because his mother was there with him, her laughter echoing in his heart, her smile he could clearly see in his mind's eye.

"Wash up for supper," she said.

"But I'm not hungry!"

"Hmm? Not right now, maybe. But you will be."

He took off the battered soldier helmet on top of his head and walked over to the old wooden crate by the side table that kept all his military gear: his home-made wooden rifle whittled by one of his neighbors, the crumpled up paper balls stained green that represented his grenades, the bandolier made from candy tubes he'd collected.

When he was done, he was surprised to see that she'd come close to him and was now untying the knot to her apron.

"All boys get hungry," she said before she wrapped her arms around him. "In all my years of being your mother, that is the one truth that won't ever change."

He grinned at her, their smiles so similar—the proof of it in the photograph she'd insisted the family take the year before. Sadly, this picture would burn when the bombs dropped and nothing from his childhood home would survive the fire.

And he would never come back because nothing would be left of her and the life they'd lived before he became a spy.

"It's the strangest thing, Loid," Yor said as she reached for the coffee mugs above her on the shelf. "I didn't even have to remind her to do her homework. Anya just came in, dropped her bags, and declared that she would study in her room as soon as she got home."

Loid frowned. That was beyond strange. It was earth-shattering. "And she's been there the whole afternoon?"

"Yes, and I've checked in on her once in a while. She really is studying."

"She wants something from us. That's the only reason why she would work this hard."

She blinked rapidly for a few seconds and then laughed. "That's a cynical way of looking at it, but I don't think I can disagree."

Loid smiled, too.

Yor should definitely do that more often: laugh.

But he walked to the door of Anya's bedroom and knocked. "Anya, your cocoa's ready. There's cookies, too."

"Anya's not hungry!" came her muffled voice from behind her door.

That made Loid even more suspicious. Anya always demanded snacks, peanuts, cookies, everything. "Impossible."

All girls get hungry.

A fleeting memory.

He shook his head to erase the thought from his mind and knocked again. "Anya, your cocoa's getting cold."

He was about to reach for the doorknob, but he suddenly heard her chair scape against the floor, the hurried steps she took, and then the door abruptly swung open before he even touched the brass of the knob.

She looked desperate, as if she was trying to hide something. "Okay, Anya will eat the cookies Popsy made!"

The brief glimpse into her room showed dismantled plastic bits on her desk, colorful papers strewn underneath it, wires—

Wait, wires?! Where did she get those?!

But the door slammed in his face, and she was grabbing his hand, pulling him towards the living room where they often spent time as a family snacking.

And as always, his suspicious nature flared up because he was pretty sure Anya was going to embroil him in some kind of situation.

The little girl slumbered on the sofa and he peered at her, his face furrowed into a frown. He didn't like that she'd invaded their home so thoroughly that she'd taken up the best part of the sofa—the area of the cushion that dipped so perfectly that it formed a big enough crater to prevent him from falling out. Mama knew that was his spot.

But now she was in it sleeping. He resisted the urge to shake her awake so that he could reclaim his seat.

He could hear his mother chatting with hers in the kitchen.

"It's weird, Gertrude love, her eye color keeps changing," Mrs. Karla was saying. "I swear they're becoming lighter and lighter each day. Right now it's a very pale shade of brown, but I have a feeling that her eyes will be a different shade when she's older."

"It's possible, Karla, but I wouldn't worry about it. I really don't think it's as bad as you think it is," his mother replied reassuringly. "Here, have another slice of cake."

They'd moved into one of the apartments a few streets away from them. He'd only met her father a couple of times and who often waved at him tiredly. The mother, Mrs. Karla, was friendly and liked to talk—a lot. But the little girl, she was quiet and spoke only when addressed. Her eyes, too, often strayed but would stop and stare at his father's collection of miniature swords, particularly the shiny silver ones that weren't too rusty from neglect.

He didn't know her real name. Sometimes, she was Little Lamb. Sometimes she was Nugget, Precious, or more recently, Angel.

His mother was embarrassed when he'd asked. "I don't remember, either, dear. Karla mentioned it once, but I've just been calling her Angel so long that I can't recall."

Mrs. Karla had a habit of calling him by something else besides his name, too. He didn't mind because she did it with everyone. His father complained, though, because he didn't like it.

"It's disrespectful. I have a proper name."

"She doesn't mean anything bad by it," his mother said, trying to defend her friend. "Besides, I think she just has a problem remembering everyone's names. It's her way of trying not to be rude. Give her time. She's new here in the neighborhood and there's a lot of names and faces to remember."

When they came over, every time, it was a new nickname for him. Discovering his love of playing soldier with his friends, Mrs. Karla had called him Private the first time they'd come over. But when their visits became more frequent, he'd increased in rank. He became Lieutenant, then Captain, then Colonel. Today, she called him General.

And he decided that he liked that the best.

Mother often invited them over for tea.

"With your father gone so long on his business trips, I just want some company. Plus, I just want them to feel welcomed into the neighborhood."

Mama was trying, but he knew it wasn't that. Technically, Mrs. Karla and Little Lamb lived too far away to be considered part of their neighborhood.

But he understood that where they lived was an area where his father disapproved of and had warned him not to enter without an adult. Those days, he'd heeded his father's advice. He didn't like going there anyway. Most of the storefronts had cracks on the windows. Stray dogs often rummaged through garbage that was left rotting in the streets. Men in rough clothing and faded coats slept on park benches, clutching bottles of alcohol, hoping for salvation.

That's where this little girl lived. She shivered on the sofa, and feeling a spurt of sympathy, he picked up the throw blanket on the opposite chair and gently covered her with it.

Mama was being kind.

So that meant he had to be, too—even though he didn't like that Mrs. Karla's Nugget usurped his place on the sofa.

Still, they were good people. They never overstayed their welcome, and the last time, Angel had given him a flower she'd picked herself.

"Are you hungry? Do you want to eat some cake, too?" he asked her.

"Yes, please," she said solemnly.

"Come on, then. Mama's made enough for everyone."

"Thank you." She brushed at the wrinkles on her clothes, at the faded edges of her dress to make sure that she was presentable enough and then looked up when their mothers walked into the living room and told them to enter the kitchen for some afternoon tea.

His mother was grinning at both of them. "I know two children who need to fill their tummies."

Mrs. Karla looked grateful. She placed a hand on his mother's arm. "Thank you, Gertrude-dear."

His mother looked at him and opened her mouth, but he beat her to it before she could say it. "All boys get hungry!"

Beside him, Little Lamb nodded in agreement. "Little girls, too," she added quietly.

"Popsy!"

He looked up from the newspaper in time to see Anya trip over her feet and almost drop the tray she was carrying.

He was about to get up, but luckily, Yor got to Anya in time and managed to grab the tray with one hand, and the other to steady Anya.

"Gotcha!" Yor said. "That was close!"

"Anya, are you okay?" he asked, but he needn't have worried.

She was already unfazed by her almost-disaster. Knowing Yor had everything handled, she'd left her mother to take over with the tray of drinks and was now bounding for her spot on the sofa—right next to him.

Yor placed Anya's cocoa, his coffee, and a plate of cookies in front of them on the table. He glanced at her with a smile of thanks, which made her lift a hand and self-consciously tuck her hair behind her ear before she took her seat across from them in her favorite armchair.

Beside him, Anya was picking at the peanut toppings of one of the cookies.

She sensed his gaze upon her so she picked up the whole cookie and proceeded to munch on it. She gave him a cheery smile. Anya liked the cookies then. It was a new recipe he'd always wanted to try.

"Good?" he asked, because her opinion really did matter.

"Tasty!" She continued chewing. "And scrumpshrews."

His lips twitched with amusement, but he continued watching her devour her snacks and drink.

"They are very delicious, Loid," Yor said.

"Thank you, Yor. I'm glad you think so." He smiled at her, too, happy to see that she'd abandoned her usual reserve and was enjoying herself watching Anya chomp on those cookies.

"Someday, when you have the time, will you show me how to make them?"

An invitation from his normally shy wife.

He hid his surprise, and despite feeling extremely flattered, he managed to smile and calmly reply, "Of course, Yor. Anytime."

But apparently, that was too much for her because she became flustered and she abruptly brought her mug down on its saucer with a sharp crack.

"Oh! Um!" Wildly, she looked at Anya and then suddenly asked, "Anya, did you finish the gift you were making for Damian?"

It was a good diversionary tactic because Twilight completely forgot about Yor and was suddenly looking sharply at his daughter. That explained that mess in her room then.

"What gift for Damian?"

She, however, was still calmly snacking. "Anya made a birthday gift for Damian. Popsy wants to see?"

"Yes."

He just wanted to make sure that whatever it was she made didn't kill the boy.

She ran to her room and came back holding a limp lizard with mismatched wings.

"That's so lovely, Anya!" Yor exclaimed as soon as she saw it.

Twilight remembered when he'd mistaken her drawing of a cow for a cheetah and made sure to ask what it was this time. He looked at the crumpled up animal and decided it could be anything.

"Er, what is it?"

"A griffin. His family crest."

"Oh."

She nodded. "Becky said Damian will remember a handmade gift more."

He smiled weakly, looking at the pitiful offering in her hand. Yes, it was quite unforgettable.

"It's a good gift, Anya."

At least she was still trying to get into Damian's good graces, Twilight thought with relief. Hopefully, this will help with Operation Strix, Plan B. Maybe Damian might finally forgive her for decking him.

She smiled at him, a pleased expression on her face. "But Damian's persnickety. Anya will buy him his favorite sweets, too. Becky will help me pick it out."

He finally laughed, relieved. If they were a favorite snack, surely Damian will accept the gift. "That might work, Anya."

Yor was smiling at both of them. "That's a great idea, Anya!"

Anya preened. "Maybe Damian will finally be my friend."

"There's nothing wrong appealing to a boy's stomach. All boys get hungry," Yor said emphatically. "Somebody once told me that, and I really think it's true in Damian's case, too."

Twilight was suddenly transported out of Berlint, out of this time.

For a brief moment, he was caught in barrage of flickering images, hazy memories of a house with a small flower garden, of family pictures sitting on the mantle above the fireplace, of a friendly old woman trying to dispel his fears of impending war, of a little girl sleeping on a comfortable sofa, of a woman with long, blond hair bathed in light smiling at him.

But his rigorous training released the defenses of his mind and shut down those thoughts, blasted away those memories because that boy no longer existed.

And then he was back in his home, gazing blankly at his wife and child. He reminded himself that they were a made-up family, a necessary cover for his current mission to get close to Donovan Desmond, Damian's father.

It took him a few minutes to recover his bearings.

Yor was still speaking to Anya. "But I think Damian will love your griffin. You've put so much thought and effort into that gift."

Twilight gazed at Yor, who was back to elegantly sipping her coffee. There was no way she could be anything but his wife, a woman he'd met a few months ago at the tailor's. He would deny the possibility that they'd met before, when he was younger, because that was unthinkable.

All boys get hungry.

No. It was a common saying; it was not unique just to him, nothing to do with his childhood at all.

He clung to that idea, his analytical mind forced to come up with excuses.

Yor had a younger brother. That's how she knew to say that. She was talking about her experience raising her brother, of Yuri being hungry when he was growing up.

But still, his mind wouldn't heed his desperate plea to forget the past because the thought of a little girl with rough clothing, with a talkative mother, with a hand holding out a prickly red rose to him wouldn't leave his brain.

And something, some feeling laden with melancholy and nostalgia made him say, "Little girls, too."

But Yor acknowledged nothing of that past.

Instead, she reached over, a hand hovered over the plate of cookies, intending to place more on Anya's plate. "That's true," she said cheerfully.

He looked at that dainty hand briefly before he grasped it and squeezed. She raised startled eyes to him, but she didn't draw her hand back.

Anya's little squeak of satisfaction made him look at her. She placed her little palm over her parents' and patted their hands, like a Forger Family pep-rally.

"But Anya's full."

Surprise had him gasping with laughter, and he was gratified to see and hear that Yor was laughing, too.

"Yes, Anya. A full stomach is a good thing," he said, looking at his family, who beamed at him in response.

So was a full heart.