No More Graves, Part I

The sizzle of onions in olive oil filled the kitchen, mingling with the smooth sounds of jazz drifting softly from the old speaker on the counter. Warm light poured from the overhead fixtures, casting gentle gold across the apartment's modest but cozy interior.

Amelia stood at the stove, stirring a skillet with a practiced rhythm, a glass of wine in one hand and a spatula in the other. She wore a faded apron with a cartoon chili pepper on it—something Ryunosuke had made in art class years ago. It was stained and tattered, but she never cooked without it.

At the kitchen table, Emily was trying not to cry while chopping a stubborn bell pepper. "I swear it's the onions," she muttered.

Amelia glanced over her shoulder and smirked. "Uh-huh. That pepper's been through three lives already."

Emily sniffed and laughed, wiping her face with her sleeve. "I'm helping."

"You're doing great," Amelia said dryly. "Next we'll move you up to garlic. Maybe even a sharp knife."

Emily rolled her eyes, but the grin didn't leave her face. The moment felt good—quiet, ordinary. Almost like the world hadn't turned upside down.

Almost.

Amelia turned the heat down and grabbed two bowls from the cupboard. "Ryunosuke used to hate bell peppers," she said, voice softer now. "Said they were 'liars' because they smelled better than they tasted."

Emily snorted. "That's… actually pretty accurate."

A beat passed.

Amelia's eyes lingered on the photo tucked on the fridge—Ryunosuke at nine, holding up a sketch of a dragon made of noodles. She didn't say anything else for a long moment. Then she handed Emily a bowl and motioned for the table.

They sat across from each other, steam curling up from the food.

"He's grown up a lot lately," Emily said after a few bites. "You can see it in his face. In his posture. He's… more like you."

Amelia's fork paused halfway to her mouth.

Then she smiled—just a little. "No. He's better."

Emily looked down at her bowl. "You ever worry about him?"

"All the time," Amelia said without hesitation. "But I raised him to walk through fire. And he's still standing."

A silence settled between them—not uncomfortable, but full.

The rain outside began to pick up, tapping gently on the windows like fingers drumming out a warning no one could hear.

Emily didn't notice.

Neither did Amelia.

They just kept eating, sharing warmth, trading quiet glances.

They didn't know this would be their last peaceful meal together for a long time.

The jazz had faded into the soft hum of background static. The rain had grown steadier now, tapping rhythmically against the glass like a lullaby. Emily rinsed the bowls in the sink while Amelia wiped down the stove, humming faintly under her breath.

It felt like any other night.

Until Emily heard the noise.

Tap. Scrape.

Not loud—barely audible over the patter of rain. But it came from the front door. A slow, deliberate movement. Like fingers testing the lock.

She froze.

Amelia noticed the shift in her posture instantly. "What is it?"

Emily turned toward the hallway. "I think someone's—"

Click.

The deadbolt shifted.

Emily's heart jumped. "The door—!"

CRACK.

The door slammed inward, a boot splintering the frame. The sound was thunderous—jarring in the quiet apartment. A man burst through the threshold, dressed in black, his face masked, eyes cold. A silenced pistol was already up in his hands.

Emily dove to the floor, heart hammering in her chest.

The first shot rang out.

Thfft!

A muffled hiss, not a bang.

Amelia cried out—her shoulder jerking back as blood bloomed across her blouse. She fell against the counter, clutching the wound, but stayed upright.

The man moved fast—room-clearing fast.

Military fast.

Emily scrambled into the hallway, adrenaline numbing her limbs. She ducked into the coat closet, pulling the door shut just as the man swept past the living room.

She held her breath. The world narrowed to silence and pulse. Her fingers trembled as she covered her mouth, trying to make herself disappear.

Footsteps.

Heavy. Intentional.

Closer.

Amelia, hunched by the counter, gritted her teeth against the pain. Her hand reached out—fumbling for the drawer beside the stove. She yanked it open, blood smearing the handle, and pulled out a small revolver.

Her breaths came fast.

She didn't call for help.

She didn't scream.

She waited.

The man's steps echoed once more—turning toward the kitchen.

Amelia's grip tightened.

The lights in the kitchen flickered as the intruder stepped into view—silent, focused, gun raised.

Amelia didn't move.

She crouched low beside the counter, back pressed to the cabinet, blood soaking through the sleeve of her shirt. Her hand gripped the revolver hidden just beneath her thigh, fingers wrapped tight around cold steel.

She heard the shift in the intruder's weight—one foot forward, slow and measured.

She waited until she could see the shadow of his legs.

Then she moved.

CRACK.

Her revolver barked once, the blast deafening in the small room. The bullet grazed his side, sending him stumbling back with a grunt. But he didn't fall. He swung the gun toward her, and Amelia ducked behind the counter just as another thfft cracked overhead.

In the hallway, Emily flinched.

The coat closet was too small, too dark. Her knees were pressed to her chest, her breath short and hot against her palm. She could hear the struggle—the dull impact of bodies hitting walls, the muffled crash of something heavy tipping over.

Her aunt was fighting.

Fighting.

And Emily could do nothing but hide.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

In the kitchen, Amelia lunged for the fallen frying pan and hurled it at the man's face. It clanged off his mask, buying her just enough time to reach the drawer behind her and yank it open.

He charged.

She grabbed the first thing she found.

A meat thermometer.

He tackled her into the fridge.

The two of them went down hard, crashing into the floor. The pistol clattered away across the tile.

Amelia drove the thermometer into his side—hard—right below the ribs. He cried out in pain, swinging a wild elbow into her jaw, sending her reeling.

But she didn't stop.

She dove across the kitchen, snatched the revolver off the floor, spun around—

And fired.

CRACK.

The first shot hit his shoulder.

He tried to rise.

The second—

CRACK.

—straight through the head.

He dropped instantly.

Blood pooled around his skull in widening silence.

The only sound left was Amelia's ragged breathing.

And the soft static hum of the still-playing jazz track—now distorted, skipping.

Amelia slumped against the cabinet, revolver hanging loosely in her bloodied hand.

"Emily," she called out, voice hoarse. "It's over."

The closet door creaked open a second later.

Emily stumbled into view, pale, her whole body shaking. Her eyes locked on the corpse, the blood, the gun still in Amelia's hand.

Emily collapsed into Amelia's arms, her entire body trembling as sobs tore free from her throat.

Amelia winced—the pain in her shoulder sharp and immediate—but she didn't pull away. She wrapped her uninjured arm around Emily and held her tightly, grounding her with the kind of strength that didn't come from muscles or weapons—but from love hardened by loss.

Emily buried her face into Amelia's neck, the scent of smoke and blood clinging to her. Her hands gripped her aunt's back like a child afraid the world would vanish if she let go.

"I thought—" she gasped. "I thought he was going to kill you."

Amelia gently stroked the back of her head, voice steady despite the sting of the wound. "He almost did."

Emily pulled back slightly, eyes red, mascara streaked down her cheeks. "You… you shot him. Twice. In the head."

Amelia looked her straight in the eye. Her voice was low. Firm.

"He came for my family."

She cupped Emily's cheek, brushing away a tear with her thumb.

"And I am not losing more family."

Something inside Emily broke then—not from pain, but from release.

She fell forward again, arms wrapped around Amelia's waist. Her tears came harder, but they no longer held only fear—they carried years of silent grief. Her mother. Her father. The feeling of being adrift. And now… this.

This woman had killed for her.

Fought like a lion.

And held her like a mother.

"I'm sorry," Emily sobbed. "I'm so sorry—"

"Don't be," Amelia whispered. "You didn't run. That's enough."

They stayed there, curled together on the blood-streaked kitchen floor.

Outside, the rain continued to fall, tapping softly against the broken door.

Inside, the warmth of their embrace held against the cold of what had just been done—and what was surely coming next.