SIX MONTHS AGO
Sitting at the bow, Kochin guided the houseboat forward. Gas gurgled in the fuel tank—he was scraping bottom—but he would be home soon. In this part of Theumas, away from the urban landscape of Central, he could almost forget the life he’d had before. Forget that he ever left. Here there was nothing but limestone cliffs crumbling down into beaches and the little villages along the coast. In the distance, he saw the small delta that marked the border of Western Theumas; home wasn’t too far now.
Three years. It’d been three years since he’d been home. The allowances had come home in his place, and the closest he’d come to stepping into that white house had been with her, but Kochin didn’t delude himself. He was returning as the prodigal son, seeking favors in abundance.
As he approached the delta, he found it dotted with other boats, fishing trawlers and wooden skiffs and a couple houseboats like his own, sitting on silt-thick waters. He nosed through them, his eyes on the swaths of hyacinths that dotted the water with purple. Navigating this area was a tricky game of avoiding the foliage, which caught and tangled against the hull. It was a challenge anew each time—he never came home enough to master it.
He’d thought that changed with Nhika.
He could almost imagine her here, just as she was before: sitting at the bow of his houseboat, bare feet skimming the water as they cut through the brown current of the river. An ache twice-wrapped its fingers around his heart, brought on by the remembrance of a night in a hospital long ago. Kochin squared his jaw against the memory.
After her death, he almost hadn’t wanted to come home—he still considered turning his boat back to Central. It felt as though a countdown had started that moment in the operating room, a race to save her before she was truly lost. There were things left to do in Central, people to talk to, but he wanted to come home for just a week. It was a promise fulfilled—See, Nhika, I’m finally going home.
The river widened as he traveled farther upstream, riparian vegetation giving way to wetlands and docks jutting into the water. Here the land flattened in a valley, and he could see the low outline of Chengton, patched with terraced rice paddies and farmlands. The farm settlement sat atop the horizon, the buildings so squat and distant compared to what he’d grown accustomed to in Central. But his father had grown up in the city and his mother had spent her childhood running from war; both of them preferred the quiet edges of Theumas. Looking back, Kochin wasn’t sure why he’d ever left.
He docked the houseboat where the water stilled and took the dinghy downriver toward town. Each stroke pushed him across tranquil waters, nearer and nearer to Chengton. As he approached the docks, Kochin felt his heart tightening in his chest, as though the organ were calcifying to bone. By the time the dinghy lapped up to the docks, bumping into a variety of skiffs as it jostled its way in, there was only a rigid stone where muscle belonged.
With a grunt of effort, he tied down the dinghy, yanked the knot tight, and stood to face the rural expanse of his childhood home.
The main street welcomed him back as an old friend, immune to the same passage of time that had torn down and rebuilt Theuman streets so many times over. There were still the decrepit wooden storefronts, held together by rusted nails and peeling paint. Still the rooftops that were half-tiled, half-thatched. Still the path, cobbled in some areas and dirt in others. Despite being rural, the place held that characteristic Theuman charm: numbered streets; roofs of dark, glazed tile; and automatons squatting at every other corner. While automatons here were outdated, people still made good use of them, repurposing wheeled service automatons as tillers and broken metal casing as animal troughs.
The hills broke the flat monotony of the countryside. On the first bluff, the one closest to the water, sat a house with enough stories and white paint to be spotted through the tree canopy, with its waving fishing flags and patchy roof. Kochin swallowed the rising lump in his throat.
Home.
Eyes followed him as he passed, and Kochin wondered what set him apart. Was it the silk dress shirt he still wore, unmuddied by the primary occupations of Chengton, agriculture and fishing? Was it the upright, focused stride of an urbanite, a spine more accustomed to dinner parties than back-bending labor? Or was it something else entirely, something unseen but persistent? A pain scraped at his heart, that he’d been gone only three years, yet had changed so much that even boys he’d grown up alongside eyed him as a stranger.
Kochin veered off the main road and their stares tugged away.
His path carved a zigzag up the side of the hill. Here, between the trees, the path overlooked the expanse of the river, and when he passed the right pockets, he could see how the water extended up into the horizon in one direction, down into the ocean in the other. He smiled at the breeze that brought the scent of the river, then remembered his grief.
The last time he’d been here was with Nhika.
Kochin paused near the top of the hill, where he’d stopped then, too. Last time, he’d handed her an envelope, bade her continue forward where he could not. Now, he glanced down at the path, his heart seeing a barrier where his eyes saw nothing but a change in the dirt.
This was the gift she’d given him, wasn’t it? The gift to return home?
With a breath to steel himself, Kochin pressed forward.
There sat the narrow white house at the top of the hill, flags snatching the wind as they waved on a long, wooden pole. Since he’d left home, there were six new flags; Vinsen’s collection was growing.
Otherwise, he remembered this house in its exactness, as if it hadn’t changed at all while he’d been gone. Besides the flags, the only other variable was the garden, overgrown with rosebushes and hydrangeas and cosmos, and from the prevalence of yellows and pinks he knew his mother had planted them all. As Kochin approached the door, a streak of brown rounded the side of the building before a dog leaped against his chest, toppling him.
“Bonbo!” Kochin laughed, diverting the mutt’s snout before his sloppy tongue could wipe his face. “You remember me?” Three years had not been kind to Bonbo; his eyes had sunken, nose paled, but he still retained that frenetic puppy energy. Kochin wondered if that came from his mother’s meals or soothing.
“Bonbo! Get back here!” A voice trailed the dog from the side of the house before his mother arrived, dressed in an outfit all cut from the same monochrome fabric and balancing a wicker basket on her hip. “I’m so sorry ab—”
She froze. Kochin’s smile fell away to hesitation as she stared at him, eyes stunned in a half-widened state and lips forming an unspoken word. Bonbo knew no such ceremony, and circled Kochin as he stood and fell into a bow. “Ma.”
“Kochin.” The word came out breathless. The basket fell from her hip, scattering clipped herbs across the lawn.
His smile was at once apologetic and relieved. “I know I should’ve come earlier, but—”
In a second, she’d reached his side and swept him up in an embrace, squeezing air from every lobule of his lungs before setting him back down again, too heavily. She gave him only a moment to regain his footing and breath before examining every inch of him, squeezing his biceps and tapping the underside of his chin. “So skinny. What have you been eating?”
It came out so naturally, like three years were forgotten in an instant. He laughed, a meager thing, taking her hounding as forgiveness. “I’ve been working.”
“Working too much,” she determined, narrowed eyes scrutinizing his face. Did she notice the new bags underneath his eyes? The sallowness of his cheeks? He had not slept well in a long, long time. If she saw his tiredness, she only shook her head. “Where have you been, Kochin?”
He pressed his lips thin, eyes deflecting toward the ground. “It’s a long story, Ma.”
“Well, we’ll all want to hear it.” A firm hand clamped around his arm as she took him inside, Bonbo following at their heels. Kochin threw a glance over his shoulder. For a moment, he could see Nhika, her back toward them as she admired the sprawling view beyond the hill. The wind caught her hair, the sun warmed her golden-brown skin, and she started to turn; he thought he might even catch a glimpse of the smile in her eyes.
Before he could, his mother shut the door behind him.
The smells of the house were the same as he remembered: fish cooking somewhere, the pungent odor nearly concealed by the fragrance of herbs and flowers. Garden clippings added color to the weathered walls, every counter covered in a variety of glass vases and pots. At the end of the hallway was the open kitchen, filled with waning sunlight.
“Vinsen, Bentri, Hoiy!” his mother called, the cut of her voice enough to rattle a wood louse out of the walls. “Everybody in the kitchen, now!”
The house rumbled to life—feet pounding down the stairs, doors opening and slamming, chairs scooting across hardwood. He heard the chatter of his brothers in the kitchen and hitched a breath at Bentri’s laughter—his younger brother’s voice had dropped in his absence.
His mother dragged him down the hallway. Kochin’s throat tightened with a combination of anxiety and anticipation, until at last she pushed him into the entryway.
All eyes turned to him. Kochin swallowed. “Vinsen. Bentri. Ba.” He dipped his head in greeting when none of them spoke, too afraid to meet their eyes and the expectations that came with them.
Bentri came like Bonbo had, sixteen years of boyhood crashing into Kochin’s chest in a tight hug. The boy had grown taller but not any thicker, though he surprised Kochin with hidden strength as he lifted him off the ground. Then there was his father, who gave him a quiet, stoic smile though his lip trembled with disbelief. He stood from his chair with the gait of an older gentleman as he made his way to Kochin, joining in the embrace. Meanwhile, from the table, Vinsen nodded curtly, jaw set.
When his family pulled away from him, Kochin realized he’d been tensing underneath their warmth, and he let his shoulders relax again. It’d been a long time since he’d known an embrace so tight, so complete. With his presence, his family was made whole again—wasn’t this what he’d wanted for so long? Yet, being here felt like a betrayal, felt unearned.
“Kochin, I can’t believe you’re back,” Bentri said. For how tall he’d grown, he was still the same kid, all freckles and knobby joints, wild sable hair and toothy grin. His eyes were wide with elation, which was quick to sour to worry. “How long are you staying?”
“I’m sure Kochin is much too busy to stay for long,” said Vinsen, Kochin’s elder brother. “Quick, someone pull a chair before he’s out the door again.”
“Vinsen,” his mother scolded. But, as though she saw the merit behind his words, she drew a chair for Kochin at the table and gestured for him to sit. “Kochin, it’s been so long. You must have so much to tell us.”
Santo, Congmi, Nhika. Three years unwound themselves on his tongue, waiting to spill. Instead, Kochin took a seat at the table and said, “Not really. I suppose work got the better of me, and when I finally managed to catch my breath, three years had passed.”
“It’s okay,” his father said, at which Vinsen scoffed. “At least we knew you were alive.”
“I’m glad to see you’re all well,” Kochin said, back straight and overly formal. After spending so much time in Dr. Santo’s society, he’d almost forgotten how else to act. As a crutch, he returned to the language of favors, one he’d learned to speak in Central: “I left my job in Theumas. I was wondering if I could stay at home while I reorient myself. I’ll cook, clean, and garden—I just need a place to stay.”
“No need to ask, Kochin,” his father said, taking a seat across from him. “Your bedroom is still here.”
“I’ll clear it out,” Bentri said, then added sheepishly, “I was using it as a study.”
Kochin raised an eyebrow. “Were you, now?” He’d never known Bentri to be a studier; that had always been his niche, following in his father’s footsteps.
His mother stooped behind Bentri, ruffling his tangled hair. “He’s trying hard to get into a top university. Just like his brother.”
“I’m taking the placement exam early—like you did,” Bentri said, his tone cautiously eager, as though awaiting Kochin’s approval.
Kochin smiled humorlessly. He supposed his path looked grand on paper—small-town genius who’d attended and graduated from his university early to land a job with a research director—but Kochin wouldn’t wish his life on anyone, much less his own brother. So, instead, without much of an expression, he said, “I’m proud of you, Bentri.”
“Kochin, the letter you sent weeks ago—after reading it, I didn’t expect you’d come back so soon,” his mother said. Kochin’s heart fell. That was the letter he’d sent home with Nhika.
“My plans changed.”
“What about your friend, the other heartsooth?”
A sudden anguish gripped his heart, too painful to breathe through. It felt almost wrong for his mother to mention Nhika so offhandedly, but how could she know the extent of Kochin’s grief? He let none of it show as he said, “She’s … not with me anymore.”
Something fell behind his mother’s eyes, and he wondered if she still knew him well enough to see the sorrow beneath his cordial smile, or if the mask he’d perfected in Central worked even on his family. For a moment, no one spoke, until Kochin said, “I left my things in my boat. I’ll be back again after I grab them.”
Before they could protest, Kochin stood, and his family gave him his space. He strode toward the door, pausing at the threshold of the kitchen to say, “Thank you for having me.”
As he closed the door, his eyes wandered to the garden, where a group of chickens sniped at his mother’s vegetables. Midstep, he paused, counting their calories in his head before nodding with satisfaction.
Kochin took the smallest of the bunch with him.
His dinghy lapped up to the side of the houseboat. With a final grunt of effort, Kochin rowed it parallel and docked himself. Chicken under one arm, he stepped up onto the stern, ducked past the solarium, and dipped into the body of the houseboat.
Where the main cabin had once been a comfortable living space, room enough for two to find respite together, he’d now pushed aside all the furniture to clear the area for something new: one of Dr. Santo’s inventions, a casket to keep a body fresh.
Nhika.
With a slow exhale, Kochin traipsed up to the casket, released the pressure of the lid, and opened it. There she lay atop cushioned satin, looking like she was merely sleeping, a breathing tube between her lips and catheters in her arms. He’d long since healed her body’s wounds, melting away the hole in her shoulder and sealing the cut in her abdomen. His frequent heartsoothing kept the machinations of decomposition at bay, but it wasn’t enough.
Lungs expanding, organs whole, and yet she was still gone. Skin warm, blood oxygenated, and she still didn’t wake. And it was all because Kochin’s body could take and take and take, but it could never give. It was against the laws of biology, after all—organs were meant to hoard, not relinquish—and though the heartsooth in him could defy such laws in others, his own anatomy remained stubborn and unforgiving. His heartsoothing had never been enough.
He set his jaw as the chicken fretted under his arm. Then, with one hand buried in its breast and the other placed on Nhika’s laced fingers, he began the transfer. A flurry of energy entered his core, an influx of heat in his chest, and Kochin exhaled the taste of it on his breath, felt the buzz of it in his clenched teeth. Before his eyes, he saw Nhika’s organs laid bare, skin turned to glass to reveal the layers of her anatomy underneath. Each swarmed with color, not tissue but interconnected systems, and he felt a wave of malaise, the nausea that reminded him he was soothing a corpse. He pressed through the discordance, funneling the heat from the chicken toward her glass anatomy.
Kochin had soothed many bodies before, most of them without their knowledge. The workings of their biology returned to him, the feeling of how a body should be. Blood was not so sour, so he bled oxygen back into her muscles. Membranes were not so porous, so he tightened up the loosening lumen with a clenched fist. The skin was not so cold, so he breathed warmth across her core. Drawing stores from the fowl in his arms, he mirrored life atop her body, returning color to her cheeks and energy to her tissue. With a pinch of electricity, he started a beat in her heart to bring circulation to the languid blood.
And yet … It wasn’t enough. As soon as he drew away his soothing, her heart ceased to beat. Her eyes did not open. Her lips remained still.
With a defeated sigh, Kochin pulled back. Her anatomy settled back into reality, opaqueness seeping over skin and organs dimming beneath her rib cage. Kochin watched her face, waiting for any indication of life, but there was none.
Of course not.
He discarded the chicken, now shriveled and limp, and pulled a chair up to the casket’s side. With one hand, he caught the lever and added revolutions to the machine, powering the battery. In his other hand, he turned a ring of bone and onyx around his finger, his skin moving over familiar grooves.
“I’m sorry, Nhika,” he said, as he often did. Sorry that he could not give the same way she could. Sorry she had left him to carry her gift of heartsoothing, but it wasn’t much of a gift at all.
Sorry for a great many things that had already been whispered around this houseboat—when she awoke, he hoped she would hear and accept them all. Bringing her back would be his act of repentance.
And he would bring her back. She wasn’t yet gone, not with all the potential his heartsoothing had. He’d suffered under Dr. Santo’s thumb for three long years for a reason, and now he saw why: to bring back the girl he loved. “Just give me a little more time.”
“And a lot more chickens, hmm?” she asked, appearing beside him.
He let out a breath of humor. “Yes. Something different from fish and mice.”
“I appreciate the variety,” she said, and when his eyes next passed over her, she was gone, leaving him alone in the houseboat once more.
Kochin leaned back, a sigh on his lips, and settled in the silence. There, beside an uncovered casket, rocked by uneven waves, Kochin cranked the lone lever on and on and on.