A few days after the greenhouse gambit, Ash found himself riding a lonely train northwest through Kanto, his breath faint against the window as the Afternoon light stretched across the tracks. The chaos of Saffron City had been left behind. He didn't want to think about Looker, Tedesco, or the rogue agent's warning echoing in his head.

He just needed something familiar. Something steady.

He needed Brock.

The moment Ash stepped off the platform in Pewter City, the air hit different—cooler, quieter. The city hadn't changed much, tucked away between stone and forest. It was a place untouched by the corruption spreading like wildfire across Kanto. Or so it seemed.

Brock met him at the station, hands in his jacket pockets, a slow grin stretching across his face.

"You look like hell," he said.

Ash shook his head in distress. "Man, oh man, I am wiped out."

They walked the short distance to Brock's modest home—still the same house Ash remembered from years ago, though a little more weathered. The sun was dipping low by the time they made it to the backyard. A small fire crackled in a circle of old stones, casting warm orange light over their faces as they sat on overturned crates.

For a while, neither of them spoke. Ash leaned back, arms resting on his knees, eyes lost in the fire.

Brock handed him a cup of tea. "You been sleeping?"

Ash shook his head. "Not really."

Brock didn't push.

They sat there, sipping in silence. Kricketune chirped in the grass. A breeze rustled the trees.

Eventually, Ash spoke. "You ever think about her?"

Brock looked at him, not needing to ask who he meant.

"Yeah," he said. "I do."

Ash's jaw tensed. "I still remember what she made me before I left Kanto. Just some dumb peanut butter sandwich… but she wrapped it in this Pikachu napkin, like I was still ten."

Brock gave a soft laugh, one that faded quickly. "Delia was the kind of mom everyone wished they had. Even my siblings loved her."

Ash nodded, quiet again. The fire cracked.

"You've changed a lot," Brock said after a while. "Back then you were just a loud kid with zero patience and a bottomless stomach."

Ash grinned. "I still have a bottomless stomach."

Brock chuckled. "Fair. But seriously… you've become someone people look up to, Ash. Especially now. You're carrying more than just your own weight."

Ash looked down at his cup. "Sometimes I wonder if I'm strong… or just used to carrying the pain."

That hung in the air.

Brock stared into the flames, and for the briefest moment, his smile wavered—something flickering in his eyes. Then he cleared his throat.

"You remember that time in Hoenn? The Trick House?"

Ash blinked. "You mean when we walked in circles for two hours before realizing the exit was behind a painting?"

Brock laughed. "You almost had a meltdown. May said you looked like a Psyduck having an existential crisis."

Ash laughed too—loud, honest laughter that melted some of the tension from his shoulders. "I forgot about that…"

They traded stories after that—Kanto, Hoenn, even Sinnoh. Dumb mistakes, lucky wins, weird towns with weirder rules. Brock always had this way of making everything sound like it had happened just last week. For a while, it almost felt like they were kids again. No Team Rocket. No Looker.

Ash asked about Brock's siblings—Forrest, the Gym, how things were holding up. Brock answered, but his voice wasn't as lively. His responses were shorter. Vague.

"They're fine," he said. "Staying busy."

Ash noticed the deflection but let it go.

The night grew colder. The fire burned lower.

Ash stretched his legs out and leaned back against a crate. "I needed this."

Brock smiled gently. "Yeah. Me too."

Ash hesitated before asking, "Do you think we can actually do it? Take Kanto back?"

There was a short pause.

Then Brock nodded. "Yeah. I think we can."

Ash stared into the fire, letting himself believe that for a while.

Later, as he laid on a spare mat inside the house, staring up at the ceiling, Ash felt a rare sense of peace. Trust. Safety.

Ash lay still on the mat in Brock's guest room, hands folded behind his head, eyes locked on the ceiling as if it held answers. The moonlight spilled in thin slices through the blinds, casting stripes across the floor. The house was quiet, save for the ticking of a wall clock and the occasional creak of old wood.

And yet, inside his mind—it wasn't quiet at all.

He had left Kanto five years ago. At the time, he'd told everyone it was about training, about becoming stronger. Maybe that had been true, in part. But the real reason was harder to admit, even to himself.

The truth was—he couldn't breathe here anymore.

Red had already become a legend. And Ash, whether he liked it or not, was trapped in his shadow. The pressure, the comparisons, the eyes constantly watching for him to either rise or fall—it was too much. And then, there was Team Rocket. Not the bumbling trio he used to laugh off. Something darker. Growing stronger. More coordinated. The tension in the air had been undeniable.

So he left. Promised himself he'd come back when he was ready.

But by the time he returned… everything had changed.

His mother was gone. Taken in an instant—caught in a war that had festered while he was gone. A war that had been aimed at his brother, but landed on his family instead.

Kanto wasn't home anymore.

It had become a battlefield.

Team Rocket held the reins now. Red was barely holding the line. Ash's friends, the ones who had always been there for him, tried to stay brave—but the fear in their eyes was evident.

And now, Ash found himself taking orders from a man he once trusted. Detective Looker. But the man felt different now. Less like a protector, more like a puzzle missing too many pieces.

Ash was twenty-one years old now.

And this wasn't the life he thought he'd be living.

Not like this. Not sneaking around Rocket-controlled greenhouses. Not dodging death in city alleys. Not drowning in suspicion. He was supposed to be exploring new regions, catching Pokémon, laughing with friends around campfires. Not this war in the ashes of his home.

And worst of all, deep down, a question had begun to take root.

Was he even on the right side anymore?

He turned onto his side, eyes heavy. Sleep came slowly—reluctantly. It dragged him down, thought by thought, into dreams that blurred into warnings.

The next morning…

The skies above Lavender Town hung low like mourning veils—clouds drifting like smoke, the wind carrying a hush that never quite left the mountainside. A soft fog clung to the cobblestone streets as Ash and Brock arrived at the edge of town, the silhouette of Pokémon Tower rising in the distance like a monument to memory itself.

"I want to visit the Tower," Ash said quietly as they stepped off the bus. "Just for a little while. For my mom."

Brock didn't hesitate. "Of course. I'll go with you."

The town was as solemn as ever. Old wind chimes creaked in doorways, and incense drifted out from prayer shops lining the street. It smelled of dried herbs and faint smoke—lavender, rosemary, and something older. The past lived here. It had never left.

They walked through the gates of the Pokémon Tower, its ancient doors groaning open. Inside, candles flickered in shallow alcoves carved into stone, casting gentle shadows on rows of small shrines and memorial stones. Each one told a story. Some marked the passing of beloved Pokémon, others were for trainers—some young, some nameless.

Ash walked slowly, every step echoing too loudly in the silence. He stopped near an empty altar, placing a single white flower on the stone. He didn't say anything. He didn't need to.

Brock stood a few paces behind, giving him space. He knew grief had no clock. It moved like mist—quiet and slow until it settled into the soul.

Then came the sound of soft sobbing. A child's cry. Fragile. Honest.

Ash turned toward the sound, and in a dim-lit corner, they saw a boy no older than seven, clutching a Poké Ball in both hands like it would disappear if he let go. Tears stained his cheeks, and his tiny body shook in waves.

Brock approached first, kneeling beside him. "Hey there… are you okay?"

The boy looked up, startled, but didn't answer.

Ash lowered himself too, his voice gentle. "What's your name?"

"Kenji," the boy whispered, almost too quietly to hear.

"What happened, Kenji?" Brock asked, calm and kind.

"They… they came near Route 8. The men with the black jackets. They said they needed strong Pokémon. They… they took my Growlithe. Said he belonged to them now. But… they hurt him first. He didn't… he didn't make it."

Ash felt his chest tighten. He looked down at the Poké Ball in Kenji's hands—it was cracked, scuffed, held like a broken piece of home.

"I'm sorry," Ash said, voice thick.

Kenji clung to the ball like it was the last piece of his heart. "I didn't even get to say goodbye."

Brock placed a hand gently on the boy's shoulder. "Then maybe we can say it together. Here. For Growlithe."

Ash nodded, rising slowly. "We'll help you give him a proper goodbye."

Together, they guided Kenji to a small open altar. Brock lit the incense, setting it in a bowl beside the altar stone. Ash carefully set a cloth down as a kind of offering—his own old cap, faded and worn from his travels. He said nothing, but placed it gently beside Kenji's Poké Ball.

Kenji closed his eyes, whispering broken words of farewell as the incense burned and the candles flickered.

For a moment, the Tower felt stiller than before—like even the ghosts were listening.

When the silence stretched long and peaceful, Kenji looked up at them. "Thank you…"

Brock ruffled his hair, smiling gently. "Growlithe was lucky to have someone like you."

Ash watched the boy leave a few minutes later with one of the caretakers. The heavy quiet returned, but something lingered.

"I hate them for this," Ash muttered. "For turning everything into a war zone… even places like this."

Brock stood beside him, arms crossed, but quieter than usual.

"My mom used to light incense every Sunday," Ash went on. "Even when I was off traveling. She'd leave a prayer for me. I never asked what she said."

Brock looked away for a moment, then back to the altar.

"When I was younger," he said, voice rough, "I used to wonder if one day I'd lose them too. My brothers and sisters. Every time I left home to travel, I was scared I wouldn't make it back. That they'd need me and I wouldn't be there."

Ash blinked. Brock rarely opened up like this.

"You've always been there," Ash said. "You're the one who held us together half the time."

Brock gave a tired smile. "Still… I don't know what I'd do if something happened to any of them. I've never said that out loud."

Ash nodded, his voice low. "I get it."

They lingered for a while, saying nothing more, letting the moment speak for itself. Outside, the clouds had started to break, letting pale sunlight slip through the gray.

Ash glanced back at the shrine before they walked out.

Maybe somewhere, somehow… Delia heard him.

And maybe Growlithe did too.