In the 4am winter night, the father has no reason to fear anyone seeing him. The streets of this dingy neighbourhood are empty except for wet, brown snow that collects the deep footprints of strangers. The father has no reason to fear anyone robbing him. His pockets are light. They only hold an empty wallet, an expired driver’s licence, and a dead cell phone. And yet, the absence of life leaves room for imaginary danger. The father’s blue eyes stare down pockets of darkness, his tense legs ever ready to sprint.

He avoids the straight path that leads to his destination. Instead, he circles the housing block like a frantic bird, riding his own wings of instinct governed by survival, anxiety, and death. His metronome heart sets his quick pace, and when he makes the final turn that brings his destination into view, his heart drums to the swell of fear and excitement.

His eyes now squint in the dying light of sparse streetlamps, and he whispers to himself house numbers he passes in the language of a stranger. He stops at a small house. Its front has a door, a window with blinds, and a broken bulb with frozen cobwebs. Before the door is a wooden deck with stairs. Rusted nails barely hold the planks in place.

He walks up the stairs to the door and raises a fist to knock.

Fuck. No one’s going to be awake. God, I’m a fool. Got too excited—

Movement, through the crack beneath the door. It sparks the warm memory of the padded pit-pat of small, socked feet on hardwood floor. The father trembles. He doesn’t know if it’s from cold, excitement, or fear. He knocks before he decides.

The pit-pats are real now. He can hear them: larger, heavier, but undoubtedly theirs. The window blinds fold to form a peephole. The lock clicks, the door swings open, and the father stares down at an almost mirror image of himself. The same messy black hair, the same weary eyes: his eldest child, better than him in every way.

They speak in the language of family. “Daa?”

The eldest child throws themselves at their father, nearly knocking him off the stairs. He can’t help but laugh as he picks them off the snow, warmth bubbling out of him into his tight embrace. His child is taller and stronger now — an adult by all definitions. But to him, as they bury their face into their father’s chest, they’re still so small, so light, so easy to tear away from him like before.

It has been ten years since their father was wrongly sent to prison. On the red-blue night of his arrest at their doorstep, Hygd was three and wailing, Merethel was seven and scared, and Hrodwyn was ten and bold. Hrodwyn heard the officers yell “Gavrill Vorobyev” over and over, watched them slam their pleading father against a car, and felt their siblings shatter in their arms. As the officers drove their father away, Hrodwyn knew it was now their responsibility to protect their family. They knew it was now their responsibility to fix all the broken pieces their father left behind, even if it meant pricking their own fingers.

In the mornings following their father Gavrill’s return, Hrodwyn made sure every piece of the siblings’ lives were meticulously organised like glass figurines on display. Nervously, they presented their father their handiwork within the cabinet of cutleries and Tupperwares, the closet of detergent and cleaning supplies, the fridge door of schedules and chores. All this order balanced on a rickety shelf Hrodwyn had built; all this order came crashing down in days to make room for Gavrill.

At first, Gavrill did not see this as a problem. He saw no problem at all — he was finally free, and his senses flared with life. He relished the touch of warm skin instead of thin paper, savoured the sound of rich voices instead of broken static. And with every chip and crack he felt between him and his children, an echo of his wife’s voice would comfort him:

But it did not take long for reality to slip through the cracks of his ignorance. That was what he got for dancing around “How did you get out of prison?” — that was how he began stepping on his children’s broken pieces.

Gavrill jolts awake on the couch. Foreign babble plays to colourful cartoon ponies running across the television screen.

“Ah, sorry daa,” Hrodwyn whispers in the language of family, Ingush — Gavrill ensured Auntie Elmira taught them when he was in prison. “Do you want lunch? I was going to heat up the stew you brought home last night.”

Gavrill rubs his eyes. Yesterday, his new job called him to an orientation in Rio de Janeiro. He bought the stew before he flew back. “Sounds good. We should finish that soon. It smelled great! I think you will all like it.”

Hrodwyn smiles politely. “I’m sure we will.”

Gavrill stands up. He sees Hygd at the foot of the couch, knees tucked to her chest as she watches the cartoon. He looks around for Merethel and doesn’t find him — he’s probably studying in Gavrill’s bedroom, the only other room with a table. Hrodwyn is already in front of the fridge: a Tetris map of new groceries, wilting vegetables, and takeout boxes. They move the stew containers from the fridge to the microwave, then drift from the kitchen to Gavrill’s bedroom. A minute later, they return with Merethel grumbling behind them.

The microwave beeps. Gavrill opens it, but Hrodwyn beats him in removing the containers, slipping past him with an “it’s okay”. They place the containers on the bar table that divides the kitchen and the living room. Merethel catches a sniff of it and speaks in English.

“Wow, this smells good,” he dips his pinky into the side to taste it. “And it’s not spoiled!”

“Of course not,” Gavrill responds in Ingush. He brings one container to Hygd and sits next to her. “I wouldn’t feed you spoiled food.”

Merethel raises an eyebrow.. He takes a spoon from the drawer and the container of stew.

“Hey,” Hrodwyn says in Ingush. They sit across Gavrill. “Don’t go back to papa’s room. Eat here.”

“What? Why?”

“Because you’re always there,” Hygd says, also in English.

Merethel curls his lip. “And?”

“Hey, no English,” Hrodwyn reminds their siblings, who comply.

Hygd tries drinking the stew straight from the container and burns her tongue. “Papa’s been asking you to eat together with us, like, every day. Don’t you hear him?” 

“Well, I’m sorry, but are you studying for a scholarship?” Merethel sets his stew down with a huff and sits across her. “I thought so.”

“Hey, come on,” Gavrill says. “Be nice to your sister. Can you get a spoon for her, please?”

“She can get it herself.”

Hygd frowns. “But you’re closer! They’re on your side!”

“Come on,” Gavrill sighs.

Merethel grumbles. “Why do you want me to give her a spoon so bad—OW!”

Hygd had kicked him underneath the bar table. He retorts by trying to kick her back, but she tucks her legs out of reach. Merethel kicks her chair instead. It screeches against the floor. Hygd grins at her fuming brother. He growls and tries again.

“Hey-hey! Enough!” Gavrill yells then bites his tongue. Shit, too harsh? He lightens up. "Don’t be like that. Just pass her a spoon, please. And one for myself as well."

The two ignore him and continue scrabbling. With a sigh, Hrodwyn clears their throat and glares. Only then do their siblings stop. A second glare makes Merethel pass a spoon to his father and sister. A third isn’t needed to make Hygd smile sweetly and thank him.

Fragile silence falls on the table. Gavrill tries to tread across it carefully towards his children.

“Well, this is nice. Um,” he smiles and looks at Hrodwyn. “I’m glad you got off your shifts today. I think this is the first time we’ve had lunch together!”

“Yeah! It took, like, a month,” Hygd tilts her head to Gavrill. “And you still haven’t told us what your new job is!” 

Merethel scoffs. “Or what kind of company can hire a man out of jail.”

“Hey, I—” Gavrill opens his hands. “Those questions can wait until later. Why don’t you guys tell me about school?”

“Ugh, it’s boring stuff compared to what you’re doing! I think,” Hygd mixes her stew. “Why don’t you wanna tell us?”

“Yeah, daa,” Merethel says. “Why don’t you? You’ve had your orientation. You should know enough about your job to tell us about it now, right?”

“How was Rio? Did you see any birds?” Hygd swings her feet.

“It was very nice,” Gavrill smiles at her and folds his arms. “Very hot. But uh, the food was good! And there were little birds on the street. Oh! I forgot I got the three of you keychains—”

A loud slam and screech interrupts the conversation. Merethel had pushed his chair back. He stands up. “I’m going to my room.”

Hrodwyn tugs his sleeve. “Hey—”

“Don’t touch me,” he spits in English and yanks his arm away. “If he doesn't even want to talk about something normal like a job, what the hell else can we talk about?”

“Okay, okay, I’ll talk about it!” Gavrill shocks himself with his tone. He offsets it with a smile. “It’s fine. It’s not a big deal. Come, sit, sit. You want to know what kind of company got me home, right?”

He gestures towards the empty chair. Merethel narrows his eyes and remains standing. The two other siblings also look at Gavrill in anticipation. His open mouth runs dry.

Helvetia Ltd. A private military contractor working for an R&D consultation firm funded by the G20. A company of hounds with global reach and infinite pay. A company that operates in the dark, hidden between the lines of conspiracy theories.

“A big company,” Gavrill finally decides. “Powerful, obviously, and they know I’m innocent, so they got me out. In exchange, I get a job right out of prison. And I get to be with all of you again!”

Merethel switches to Ingush, making sure his father understands him. “Very descriptive, daa.”

He storms off to the siblings’ shared bedroom. Hrodwyn reaches for him. Gavrill sighs and waves for them to stop. The bedroom door slams shut, and the two remaining siblings are left to contemplate their father’s response. They swallow it with lunch.

Soon, Hygd’s eyes creep to Merethel’s half-eaten stew, then to the hallway he vanished off to. She slides off her seat and picks up his stew with both hands.

“He still needs to eat.”

Her small feet shuffle down the hallway. Once she disappears around the corner, Gavrill deflates, burying his head in his hands. Hrodwyn stirs their stew.

“Are you not going to tell them anything?

Gavrill sighs as he picks himself back up. “I’m not going to tell any of you anything you don’t need to know.”

Hrodwyn leans towards him. “Daa, you can tell me. I’m an adult now. I can take it.”

He looks at his child, the bags beneath their eyes, and shakes his head. “It’s fine, really. It’s a good job with good pay. Contract-based, so I’ll be home most days. Don’t worry about it.”

Hrodwyn’s voice is quiet, fraught. “Then at least tell me you know who framed you. Were they caught?”

“No. And I don’t know who or where they are.”

“What? Then how does the company know you’re innocent? Did they reopen the case?”

“I don’t know.”

Gavrill continues eating his stew with downcast eyes. Hrodwyn stares at him. “Why aren’t you worried? That guy is still out there. What if you get framed again?”

“I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

“How do you know for sure?”

“It’s fine. Trust me.”

“Did the company tell you something?”

Gavrill closes his eyes and sighs. “Look. When I got arrested, the court said that they were going to lock me up until they found the real culprit. Ten years passed. No one figured it out. They’ve all moved on from that and I’ve moved on from that, too. I’m just glad I got out in the first place. That’s all.”

Hrodwyn is quiet for some time. “Will you tell me why you got hired? Is it because of something you did in Ingushetia?”

Gavrill stops eating. “What makes you think that?”

“I remember how you fought against Russians. I remember how naana died. It’s why we moved here, isn’t it? And now you have this strange job you don’t want to tell us about—”

A rap on the door interrupts them. Gavrill, relieved, quickly leaves the table. He peeks through the blinds, frowns, and cracks the door open. Wind cuts into his face. He looks down. A large package sits atop fresh snow. Its only identification is a tag taped onto it: “HROTHGAR”. The name his wife once gave him. The name he now gave Helvetia. Footprints trail away from the package to the road where it meets fresh tire tracks. No vehicle is in sight.

He scowls. He grabs the package, dusts snow off, slams the door shut, and locks it. Before Hrodwyn can see it, he rips off the tag and shreds it, pocketing the strips.

“Do you need help with it?” Hrodwyn tilts their head. “It looks big.”

“No, it’s fine. I think it’s from work. Do you have a cutter?” 

Hrodwyn hands him a pair of scissors. He carries the package and the scissors into his bedroom and closes the door. Large luggages and old boxes are spread across the floor. Their contents, the salvaged pieces of a happier life once lived, have yet to be organised into wardrobes, sorted into shelves, or fitted into photo frames. Gavrill has no time or energy to. They’re not his children’s — they aren’t as important.

Gavrill pushes the luggages and boxes aside with his foot. He drops the package in the space he made. He sits on the floor, raises his hand, and plunges the scissors into cardboard.

By then, Gavrill still had not worn the entire uniform — he had forgotten how to tie a tie. He could count the number of times he has done it in his life on his hands, with all but one count being for court hearings. So Hygd gets to work. She pulls her father out into the living room and opens a YouTube tutorial. Time passes. Hrodwyn’s and Hygd’s fussing grows louder without them coming any closer to their goal. Their commotion annoys Merethel enough for him to bring out his own tie for a snarky demonstration. Soon, all three siblings end up circling their father for final touches: fitting the golden tie, tightening the vest, and smoothening the suit as Gavrill stands stiff like a Christmas tree.

When they’ve finished, Hygd steps back to look at her father like a panel judge. She watches Hrodwyn attach the final piece: Helvetia’ lapel pin bearing a cross in a shield. Hrodwyn steps back to join their sister. Gavrill remains frozen in place.

“I feel so embarrassed.”

“Why?” Hygd grins. “You look cool!”

“Do I?” he looks at his other two children with an uncertain but small smile. My daughter called me cool.

"You look… expensive. Very expensive," Hrodwyn gazes at the suit's double vents, the trousers cut to the curve of Gavrill’s legs, and the hand-stitched buttons. "How much did this cost, daa?"

"More than the suit I rented for my own wedding, that's for sure,” he grumbles. In a clearer tone, "I don't know. The company covered it. But what looks wrong?"

"You don't look comfortable in it. It shows.”

"When was the last time you combed your hair?” Merethel adds. “Or got a haircut?"

Gavrill grimaces. "I didn’t need to touch a comb or cut my hair back there. I only trimmed it now and then. Is it that bad?”

Merethel is quick. “Yes.”

Hygd punches his arm.

“It’s not that bad,” Hrodwyn taps their chin, “but if you did something to your hair, you can look more professional.”

"Oh! Wait, daa, sit, sit," Hygd drags her father to the couch and forces him to sit. She crawls behind him, kneels, and gently combs through his lightly greying hair with her fingers. A spare yellow hair tie comes off her wrist. She bunches his hair together. "Too tight?"

He shakes his head. "What are you doing?"

"Tying a bun," she does so expertly with a quick twist, then jumps off the couch to look at him. She grins at the team effort. “Daa! You look like a thousand bucks! Here, here.”

She grabs her father’s hand, which squeezes hers in return, and leads him into the siblings’ bedroom. Hrodwyn and Merethel follow behind. She turns on the lights and pulls him in front of the chipped mirror mounted on the wardrobe door. “What do you think, daa?”

Gavrill stares at his reflection. His smile dissolves. He doesn’t recognise himself. He only recognises Agent Hrothgar, Helvetia’s newly hired murderer, wrapped in a gallant lie of navy blue as he stands in the bedroom of children. 

Hygd smiles brightly. “So..?”

Hrodwyn notices his stare. “What’s wrong, daa?”

If he doesn’t recognise himself, will his children recognise him? After a job that hails bullets and shrapnels at his body and his mind, after he returns too splintered to shield them from the truth, will they recognise him as their father? He can try to convince them. He can try to be the best father he can be to erase the decade when he wasn’t. He can try to pretend that he’ll never leave them again, that he’ll always be there for them, that he’ll cut himself wrapping his splinters to hold them tight and never let them shatter into pieces again—

Gavrill looks away from his reflection. His eyes drift to his children.

“You need to know about my job. Can we talk?”

Gavrill sits on Merethel’s bed, next to Hrodwyn’s and Hygd’s bunk bed. He pats his side. The siblings, surprised by his directness, move to sit next to him.

He twiddles his thumbs. "This job I have, it's... dangerous.  The company is even more dangerous. They have a lot of power, a lot of money,” he tugs at his three-piece suit. “They were able to pay my bail and hire me out of, well, you know, in exchange for my… skills. And I—” he hesitates, “I can’t leave unless…"

“You die,” Hrodwyn states.

Gavrill pauses, then nods. Their delivery stings. 

The room falls silent. Hygd curls into a ball. Merethel tries masking his nerves.

"Ah, well, it's like, uh, working for the military then, right? There's always a high chance of death, and it's a risk some people with families take."

Gavrill’s voice is soft, defeated. "I'm sorry."

“It’s fine. It’s… whatever,” Merethel looks away. “It’s not like you’ve never been gone before.”

Gavrill winces and opens his mouth. Hrodwyn interrupts him. “Don’t apologise. You had no choice and you did what you had to do. They were never going to reopen your case. There will never be another option for you besides this one.”

Gavrill hates how he sees himself in his child’s placid eyes.

"What should we know about the job?” Hrodwyn continues. “What do we have to do?"

"I'll be here until the company calls me. Whatever they tell me to do, no matter how dangerous, I must follow. The company also has enemies. Keep the blinds closed, don’t let strangers in, never enter the house when someone’s watching, and always tell each other where you are, hmm?" he raises his phone. "If something’s wrong, call me or Auntie. Don't let anyone in the house. You still have Auntie’s phone number, yes?"

The children nod.

“Good. And lastly,” he voice softens and he wraps his arms around his children, "don't worry about me. I will always do my best to come home to you. I may get hurt, but I will always come home. Okay? My fight is to go back home to you, no matter what."

He pulls them in closer. The cracks between them remain but in this moment, the family is whole.

"I am here now. And I swear by my last dying breath, I will never, ever, let anything take us apart again."

Hygd picks her head up from her tucked knees. “Promise?”

Gavrill hooks his pinky with all his children’s and smiles. He cuts himself with his words and hopes it never heals.

“I promise.”