Chapter 4: Proof of Home

For the first time in years, I could eat—really eat. My stomach cramped with hunger I’d learned to ignore.

Before Number 075 arrived, the system had forced me to starve for days. Marcus had a new concubine—a girl with unscarred skin and bright eyes. He punished me for looking at her the wrong way: twenty lashes, just because he could.

The system whispered, "Host, don’t worry. As long as you starve, the male protagonist will feel guilty."

It wanted to use my pain to make Marcus regret. As if he could.

Three days of hunger, and Marcus never checked on me. Not even a servant. Just a message: "If you want to die, do it somewhere else. Don’t dirty my palace."

The system got all excited: "Listen up, this is the part where the guy finally realizes what he lost. Trust me—if you die, he’ll regret it for the rest of his life."

I never understood why I had to die for someone to love me.

The system kept me from eating, my mind sharp and clear as my body wasted away. I just lay there, counting cracks in the ceiling, waiting for death.

...

Now, I devoured my food. Rice and vegetables tasted like freedom—like hope. I didn’t want to die. I wanted to live. I wanted to see my parents again, pet my cat, gripe about homework.

When I finished eating, color finally returning to my cheeks, Number 075 handed me a device.

"Emily, this is a video from your parents. They wanted you to see it."

I froze. My heart leapt, then stuttered with hope.

The video played.

There they were—my parents, older but unmistakable. They sat on our living room couch, the fabric worn, Dad holding a mug that read "World’s Best Dad" in corny letters. Mom was fussing with a bowl of Halloween candy on the table, even though it was probably spring.

"Mike, is it recording?" Mom asked, smoothing her cardigan, trying to look composed.

Dad came into view, Cardinals cap pulled low, worry lines deeper than I remembered.

They looked so much older. Dad’s tan was permanent now, like he’d spent years outside searching. Mom’s eyes had more wrinkles, laugh lines etched by too many tears.

I couldn’t imagine the pain of all those birthdays, all those Christmases, with my chair empty at the table.

"Emmy, they must have found you, right? That’s why you can see this video?" Mom’s voice trembled, her eyes red.

"Emmy, don’t be afraid. They’ve come to bring you home."

I nodded desperately, tears streaming down my face, hugging the device to my chest so hard it hurt. I slid down the wall, sobbing until my ribs ached, completely forgetting it was just a recording.

Dad raised his arm, showing off his muscles, pretending to be strong even with gray streaking his hair. "Emmy, don’t be afraid. You’re home now. Daddy will protect you and beat up anyone who bullied you, okay?"

I whispered "okay" into the silence, as if they could hear me.

Dad’s voice broke. "Emmy, I’m sorry. It’s all Daddy’s fault. If I’d picked you up after study hall, maybe you wouldn’t have disappeared."

Mom patted his arm, her eyes swollen and tired. The gesture was so familiar it hurt.

"Emmy, don’t be afraid. Mommy and Daddy have always been here. We’ll wait for you to come home."

Our old cat meowed in the background, perched on the shoe cabinet by the door, right where it used to wait for me. It was older, grayer, but still watching the door—still waiting, every day, for seventeen years.

They had so much to say, but no words could cover it. It all came down to one thing, repeated over and over: they were waiting for me.

Tears poured down my face. I’d never cried when my legs were broken, or when the slave master humiliated me, or when Marcus used me. But now, thinking of my parents, I couldn’t stop. They were proof that I was real, that I’d been loved, that I was more than just a survivor.

The video ended, but I would play it in my mind forever.