The Kent Family (Please Keep Reading)

"No Internal Revenue Service, Jonathan."

"Just a little trouble. I already handled it."

Locke shook his head, then immediately asked, "Where's Clark? How is he?"

"Right here."

Martha turned and walked to the back seat of the pickup, carefully helping out a weak figure.

Clark's face was still pale, but some of the life had returned to his blue eyes.

Wrapped in Martha's plaid shawl, he was still unsteady on his feet, yet insisted on standing by himself.

"Uncle Locke." Clark's voice was much softer than usual. "I'm sorry, I—"

"Silly child."

Holding Dio, Locke strode forward and pulled Clark into his arms as well. He could feel the boy's thin body trembling slightly, like a stalk of wheat swaying in the wind.

Perhaps he had learned of his future from Giorno, or perhaps he felt like dead weight tonight.

In any case—

"This isn't your fault."

Locke spoke softly. "It isn't any of our fault."

"As long as everyone's all right."

Wiping at the corners of her eyes, Martha suddenly noticed the cigarette butt on the ground.

But Locke did not smoke.

"What's this...?"

"A wolf."

Speaking lightly, Locke ground it beneath the toe of his boot. "He helped take care of the trouble."

Jonathan raised a suspicious eyebrow, but when he saw the warning look in his wife's eyes, he wisely chose to keep quiet.

His brother had more than enough secrets already, anyway.

The night wind swept through the ruins, lifting a few charred pieces of barn wood.

"Let's go." With one hand on Dio's shoulder and the other supporting Clark, Locke said, "We can still make it home for a late-night snack."

"Oh no!" Martha suddenly cried out. "God! My blueberry pie is still in the oven!"

The sweet scent of blueberry pie drifted through the kitchen, while the dining table was littered with cups and plates.

Dio leaned back in his chair with satisfaction, a bit of jam still at the corner of his mouth. Clark, meanwhile, sipped Martha's special hot cocoa in small mouthfuls, his complexion far rosier than when he had arrived.

"It's getting late."

Locke stood up and put on Jonathan's cowboy hat. The brim cast a shadow beneath the light. "Dio."

Pouting, Dio slowly slid off his chair and casually stuffed the last cookie into his pocket.

Clark's blue eyes followed Dio's movements, a trace of hesitation flashing through them.

He opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something, but lowered his head again, unconsciously twisting the fringe of the shawl between his fingers.

Hmm...

Naturally, such unusual behavior did not escape Martha. She wiped her hands, took another blueberry pie wrapped in foil from the oven, and said, "Locke, wait."

Stopping the two of them, Martha stuffed the warm pie into Dio's arms, then crouched down and gently smoothed Clark's messy curls.

"Sweetheart, is there something you want to say?"

The tips of Clark's ears instantly turned red.

He stole a glance at Dio and Locke, his voice as quiet as a mosquito's buzz. "I... I want..."

"Let Clark go with you tonight."

Martha suddenly looked up at Locke, her tone leaving no room for argument. "Isn't he still supposed to patrol the wheat fields with you tomorrow?"

Jonathan was drinking coffee and nearly choked when he heard that.

"Wait, honey, Clark just—"

Receiving a sharp look from his wife, Jonathan immediately swallowed the rest of his words and pretended to take a deep interest in the night outside the window.

"Really? I can?"

Clark's eyes lit up at once, but then dimmed again. "But my body..."

"Enough nonsense."

Dio abruptly cut him off, impatience gleaming in his red eyes beneath the lamplight. "If you're coming, hurry up. Stop dragging your feet."

Watching the two boys, the corners of Locke's mouth rose unconsciously.

He reached out and rubbed Clark's head. "Your mother's right. The three of us still have work tomorrow, and it'll do you good to get some sun."

"Yeah!"

Clark cheered and nearly jumped out of his chair, only for his body to go limp and almost send him tumbling to the floor.

Martha hurriedly caught him, shaking her head with both distress and amusement.

"Careful, child."

Jonathan finally could not help speaking. His rough hand patted Clark's shoulder. "Remember to listen to Uncle Locke."

"I will!"

Clark nodded hard, his curls bouncing along with the motion.

He turned and tightly hugged Martha. "Thank you, Mom!"

Martha's eyes reddened slightly. She kissed Clark on the forehead, then said, "The three of you remember to come back for pancakes tomorrow morning."

Leading the two children away, Locke held Dio's hand in one hand and Clark's in the other. The shadows of the three of them stretched longer and longer along the country path.

Dio awkwardly tried to shake off his father's hand, only for Locke to grip it tighter. On the other side, Clark was led along with a bounce in his step, occasionally pointing at the stars in the night sky and exclaiming in wonder.

"Dio, look! That's the Big Dipper!"

"Idiot, that's Cassiopeia."

"Huh? But it clearly..."

Listening to the childish argument between the two boys, Locke looked up at the rain-washed night sky.

The Milky Way stretched across the heavens, countless stars quietly glittering.

In some unseen dimension, perhaps countless parallel worlds were running at the same time—

In some worlds, Clark had become a tyrant. In others, Dio had fallen into darkness.

But at this moment, on this ordinary Kansas night, he was merely an ordinary farmer taking two children home.

That was enough.

"Walk faster, boys."

Locke tightened his grip on their hands. "There's still half a tub of ice cream waiting at home."

"I want chocolate!"

"Pineapple is the best! Idiot Clark!"

The night wind carried the boys' cheerful bickering, waking the owl dozing on the fence. It flapped its wings and flew toward the moon, leaving only the three figures on the ground as they gradually vanished at the end of the farm path.

And behind them—

The lights of the Kent home glowed softly, like a star that would never go out.

Standing by the window, Martha unconsciously rubbed the folds of the curtain between her fingers, just as Clark had played with the fringe earlier.

Moonlight filtered through the glass, casting mottled shadows across her tired face.

In the distance, the light from Locke and the two children's flashlights had become a tiny point at the far end of the wheat fields.

"Ah..."

The sigh was so soft it was nearly inaudible, yet it made Jonathan, who was clearing the dishes, stop what he was doing.

He set down the plate covered in suds, wiped his rough palms on his apron, and walked up behind his wife.

"The children are growing up, honey."

Jonathan's broad hand rested gently on Martha's shoulder. "They're bound to have secrets of their own."

"But..." Martha turned around, her blue eyes full of worry. "Locke keeps everything bottled up inside."

Her fingers twisted tightly in her apron. "Just like when he suddenly left town all those years ago, then suddenly came back."

"He just doesn't want us to worry, honey."

"We have to trust him."

Jonathan picked up the framed photograph from the table. Inside was a family portrait taken at last year's harvest festival—

Locke stood in the middle, one hand resting on each of the two squabbling boys' heads, his smile brighter than the sunshine behind him.

"There's nothing wrong with that."

Taking the frame, Martha's fingertips gently brushed over the three children in the photograph.

"But he's always like this..."

"Leaving by himself, coming back by himself."

"You know, we watched him grow up too. When I married you, how old was Locke? Twelve, right?"

"So he's stronger than we think."

Jonathan wrapped his arms around his wife from behind, resting his chin atop her hair.

"Don't worry."

"We're all Kents. The trust between family doesn't need to be spoken aloud."

"That's enough."

The wind chimes outside tinkled as Jonathan gazed into the night.

Images from memory surfaced in his mind—

That rainy afternoon twenty-one years ago.

Not long after he had gotten married, Locke came seeking refuge from Jonathan's cousin, who drank heavily and abused him.

The twelve-year-old boy had appeared at the farm gate dragging a suitcase, soaked through yet saying nothing.

Like one driven from the pack.

A lone wolf.

PS:

[The outline has been adjusted a little, everyone.]

[I realized that introducing the next adopted character fifteen years later was a bit too long. The age gap would be way too absurd.]

[So it's been changed to nine years later.]

[Just letting everyone know.]