I spent the rest of the afternoon reading through his journal, turning pages filled with his thoughts, his worries for my health, and his unwavering gratitude for the sacrifices I had made raising him alone. Each entry reflected a young man who fought against time not for his own legacy, but for my peace of mind. He had written extensively about how every Christmas transfer was meant to be a proxy embrace, a tangible reminder that even across vast oceans and the boundary of life itself, he was still fulfilling his promise to take care of his mother.

When dusk fell over the quiet neighborhood of Asterwyn, Arthur offered to drive me to the peaceful memorial garden where Rowan had been laid to rest alongside Meilin. The cemetery was surrounded by tall silver birch trees, their leaves whispering softly in the cool evening breeze. I sat on the stone bench beside his headstone, placing my hand against the cold granite bearing his name. For ten years, I had carried the ache of feeling abandoned and forgotten, wondering why my son had chosen a distant life over the home we shared. But sitting there in the fading sunlight, the bitterness melted into a deep, overwhelming warmth. Rowan had never truly left me; he had simply transformed his love into a fortress designed to shelter me from life’s harshest storms. I leaned forward, kissed the polished stone, and whispered the words I had longed to say for a decade, assuring him that his work was finished, his mother was safe, and he could finally rest in peace.