Gurvinder grabbed his walking support, his body still aching from everything he had endured. Marinette immediately held onto his other arm, steadying him as they slowly made their way down the stairs.
"You don't have to hold me like I'll break," he muttered, though he didn't push her away.
"I don't have to, but I want to," she shot back, tightening her grip slightly.
He sighed but let her do as she pleased. Step by step, they descended, the faint sounds of the city outside filtering through the windows. The weight of everything—the trial, the hospital, the pain—still lingered in his body, but for the first time in a long while, he wasn't carrying it alone.
As they reached the bottom, Marinette glanced at him. "Ready?"
He exhaled, adjusting his grip on his walking support. "As ready as I'll ever be."
With that, they stepped out together.
As they stepped outside, the streets of Paris greeted them with warmth. People passing by recognized them instantly—some from the trial, others from the viral videos.
"Bravo, young man!" an older gentleman clapped as they walked past.
"You're an inspiration, Gurvinder!" a woman called from her bakery, waving at him.
Children pointed in excitement, whispering about the guy who fought off twenty men and survived. Marinette smiled, squeezing his arm slightly, while Gurvi nodded at everyone, his usual wit buried under the exhaustion still lingering in his bones.
By the time they reached the bus stop, a few people had already gathered, stealing glances at them. Marinette could feel the attention, but for once, Gurvinder didn't seem to mind. He just stood there, letting the city accept him as one of its own.
The bus rolled up, the doors hissing open. Marinette guided him inside, and they took a seat together, ready for whatever the day had in store.
Gurvinder raised an eyebrow. "So where are we going?"
Marinette smirked, shaking her head. "Not telling."
He scoffed, leaning back against the seat. "You really think you can keep a secret from me?"
She just grinned. "Watch me."
Gurvi narrowed his eyes at her, trying to guess, but Marinette just looked out the window, acting completely unfazed. Whatever she had planned, she wasn't going to let him ruin the surprise that easily.
As the bus came to a stop, Gurvinder stepped out with Marinette, his walking support steady in his hand. But the moment his eyes scanned the street, a strange sense of familiarity washed over him.
His brows furrowed as he looked around. The buildings, the small café on the corner, the way the road turned ahead—it all felt like a distant memory. He knew this place.
Marinette watched his face carefully, a soft smile playing on her lips. "Recognize it?" she asked gently.
Gurvi's eyes darted from one spot to another before they landed on a specific area—a quiet alleyway just ahead. His heart clenched as memories flooded back.
"This…" His voice trailed off as he took a step forward, his grip tightening on his support. "This is where I first arrived in Paris… where I spent my first night alone."
Marinette nodded. "And today, it's where your new life starts."
As they walked down the street, Gurvinder's eyes kept darting around, memories resurfacing with every step.
He glanced at an old convenience store—he remembered sneaking inside one freezing night, hoping to warm up for a few minutes before being thrown out.
His gaze landed on a broken lamppost near an alley—he had once leaned against it, exhausted, bruised from another underground fight, trying to gather enough strength to make it through the night.
Every corner, every shadow held a piece of his past, yet today, they felt… different.
Because now, Marinette was beside him.
She squeezed his hand lightly. "You're not walking through this place alone anymore, Gurvi."
He exhaled slowly, his grip on her hand tightening. "Yeah… not anymore."
As they reached the worn-down house, Gurvinder stopped in his tracks. His breath hitched as his eyes landed on the very spot where his uncle used to beat him in the open, his screams drowned out by the indifference of passersby.
The cracked pavement, the rusted gate, the dimly lit street—it was all the same. A place that once held nothing but pain, humiliation, and helplessness.
His fingers twitched as if expecting the sting of the whip again.
Marinette, sensing the storm within him, gently took his hand. "It's over, Gurvi."
He exhaled sharply, his jaw clenching. "I know… but damn, it still feels like I can hear it. The sound of the whip. The people walking by, pretending not to see anything."
Marinette stepped in front of him, forcing him to look at her. "But you're not that boy anymore. And he's never going to hurt you again."
Gurvinder stared at her for a long moment before turning back to the house. Instead of fear, a new feeling settled in his chest—closure.
As they reached the old lady's home, Gurvinder stood still, his breath uneven. His mind flickered through memories—his mother's laughter as she braided his hair, his father's strong arms lifting him high into the air, the warmth of the sun shining over the garden where he once played carefree.
Then, the image of his uncle appeared—not the monster he became, but the man he once was. The man who held him after his parents' death, who promised to take care of him, who for a brief moment made him believe he wouldn't be alone in the world.
But that promise had shattered. The care had turned into cruelty. The warmth had turned into pain.
Gurvinder swallowed, his hands clenching into fists before Marinette softly took one, grounding him back to the present.
"He was supposed to protect me," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "I thought… he loved me."
Marinette squeezed his hand. "Love isn't supposed to hurt like that, Gurvi."
He took a shaky breath, looking up at the warm sun shining over the same grass where his childhood had once been safe. He had been hoping, all those years ago, for his uncle to be his shelter. But in the end, he had to become his own.
And now, he wasn't alone anymore.
Gurvinder's body trembled as he suddenly let go of his walking support, his knees giving out beneath him. He collapsed onto the grass, his fingers digging into the earth like he was holding onto the past itself. And then, it all came crashing down.
A broken sob tore from his throat, then another—louder, rawer, until he was crying like a child lost in the darkness. Every ounce of pain he had ever buried, every wound he had hidden behind his wit and strength, came pouring out in uncontrollable waves.
This place—this cursed place—had once been his world. It had been where his parents' laughter echoed, where the old aunty's kindness had felt like a second home, where dreams and hopes had once felt possible. And then, it was all ripped away. His family was gone, his childhood stolen, and in its place stood only pain.
He clutched the grass beneath him, his sobs choking him. "Why…?" The word barely left his lips, breaking apart as if even his voice couldn't hold the weight of his grief. "Why did they have to die? Why did he…?"
His own uncle—his own blood—had turned against him, had beaten him in these very streets, had stripped him of every last remnant of safety and love. And yet… strangers, people who had no reason to care, had shown him more kindness than the man who was supposed to protect him.
Tears streamed down his face, his body shaking violently as he gasped for breath, as if trying to breathe through the agony that had suffocated him for years. "I should have died with them," he whispered, his voice shattered. "I should have…"
But Marinette was there before he could finish, dropping to her knees beside him, wrapping her arms around him as if she could hold him together. She didn't tell him to stop crying, didn't try to tell him everything would be okay—because she knew that right now, he just needed to let it out.
So she held him, letting him break, letting him mourn the boy he used to be, the family he had lost, the love that had been stolen from him. And as he cried into her shoulder, she whispered only one thing, again and again, the only thing that mattered.
"I'm here, Gurvi. I'm here."
The sound of the door creaking open barely registered in Gurvinder's ears, drowned out by his own sobs. But then, footsteps—hurried, unsteady, familiar.
The old lady stood there, her frail body trembling as she looked at him—at the boy she once knew, now a man broken by time and cruelty. Tears welled up in her eyes, slipping down her wrinkled cheeks as she covered her mouth, a sob escaping her lips.
"Gurvinder…" her voice cracked, filled with years of sorrow, regret, and longing.
At that moment, nothing else mattered. He didn't think—he just moved. Crawling toward her, his hands grasping at her dress, at anything solid, anything real. His body shook as he clung to her, his fingers tightening as if she would disappear if he let go.
She dropped down, her frail arms wrapping around him, holding him the way he had longed to be held for so many years. "Oh, my boy…" she wept, running her trembling fingers through his hair, pressing his head to her shoulder like a mother comforting her child. "I thought I lost you forever."
Gurvinder didn't speak—he couldn't. He just buried his face into her embrace, sobbing uncontrollably, releasing every ache, every nightmare, every lonely night. She rocked him gently, whispering in Punjabi, her words soft and full of warmth.
"My child… my son… you're home."