Martins froze. “Baba…”
Austin shook his head. “This place is too big. I don’t belong here.”
His breathing quickened again.
Claraara quickly stepped in front of him.
“Austin,” she said softly, “remember the blue chair you told me about? The one where you used to sit in the evenings?”
Austin blinked.
“The blue chair,” he repeated slowly.
Claraara nodded. “Yes. You said it was beside a window, and you liked to drink tea there.”
Austin’s eyes softened. He looked around again.
Then his gaze landed on a familiar blue armchair near a large window.
His lips trembled. “That’s it,” he whispered. “That’s my chair.”
His body relaxed.
Martins felt tears burn his eyes.
They guided Austin to the chair. He sat down heavily, exhausted.
His eyes closed for a moment, then opened again—clearer this time.
He looked at Martins properly.
“My son,” he said hoarsely.
Martins dropped to his knees in front of him without caring who was watching.
“I’m here, Baba.”
Austin cupped Martins’ face with trembling hands. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I always forget.”
Martins shook his head, tears falling freely. “As long as you come back, Baba… that’s all that matters.”
Austin’s eyes moved to Claraara.
He stared at her, recognition flooding back fully now.
“You,” he said, his voice thick. “You fed me.”
Claraara nodded, tears rolling down her cheeks. “Yes, sir.”
Austin struggled to stand, but Martins helped him.
Then, to everyone’s surprise, Austin pulled Claraara into a tight hug.
“Thank you,” he cried openly. “When everyone ignored me like I did not exist… you saw me.”
Claraara cried into his shoulder.
That night, Claraara stayed at the mansion.
She slept in a guest room bigger than her entire apartment, but sleep didn’t come easily.
Her mind replayed everything—SUVs, Martins, the promotion, Austin’s tears.
By morning, she still felt like she might wake up and find it was all a dream.
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