On Titan, I justified every horrible thing I did as a way to return to my family. Now I’m here, and we’re heading down a road no better than the war I left. And just like on Titan, I’m pushed to the outside. Walled off from the rest. There, I was too much of a Kaiser to ever be truly Titan. Now, it seems I’m not really a Kaiser, either. I belong nowhere.

Maybe I don’t deserve their acceptance. Maybe the war has taken too much of me, and the violence that’s taken root inside me will grow and grow until it’s the only thing left. It certainly feels like it right now, with anger taking up so much of my chest that it’s difficult to breathe.

I sweep my eyes over the room, searching for… I’m not sure exactly what, but I know I came here looking for something. Some window into Momma’s mind? Something to help me understand? I thought I had moved past her betrayal, but now the wound has been torn open again. How could she not only throw me into the war, but let my siblings believe I abandoned them by choice? I’ll never get a chance to ask now.

Nor will I ever know the truth about our last moments together on Titan. How much did she know about those vials? Did she understand the choice she was making when she went with Altair rather than sending me? Whether it was intentional or not, I would be dead if not for her… and Titan would be alive. I can’t seem to rectify those two truths.

Whatever answer I’m seeking, I don’t find it here. Her bedroom is almost completely empty, hardly different than the bunks belonging to me and the rest of my siblings. It’s disappointing somehow. I slide open the closet, but the thought of going through her clothes feels invasive, so I shut it again. I can’t bring myself to pull out the bed, either; now that I’m here, I can’t imagine sleeping where she did.

Trying to ground myself, I cross over to the sink and splash water on my face. The face in the mirror is worn down, world-weary; older than I remember looking, but not as old as I feel. Frown lines are starting to form around my mouth, replicas of the ones that marked Momma’s face. I drop my eyes from the reflection before opening the medicine cabinet behind the mirror and rifling through it. It holds some pill bottles—none of them labeled—and a small, half-empty bottle of rare Gaian wheat whiskey, which gives me pause. Shoved into the very back, hidden and folded in half, is a photograph. I pause, hesitating briefly, and unfold it. My breath catches.