Chapter 1: Welcome Home, Brother

I was very young back then, around four years old. Our family went on a week-long vacation to Germany, visiting my mom Marie's childhood home, my grandparents' estate in the countryside. It was my first ever visit, and I was filled with excitement and wonder. The estate was like a scene out of a fairy tale, with sprawling gardens, a grand, imposing mansion, and the scent of blooming flowers in the air.

We traveled by van, crossing from France to Germany, and now, from Germany back to France. We had left the German estate early in the morning, and had been on the road for hours. The journey felt endless, with the scenery blurring into a tapestry of green fields and distant mountains.

It was difficult being in the van for so long with nothing to do. There were no smartphones back then, just my original Gameboy with a Pokémon Red cartridge, which I had beaten over and over again. I remember the comforting beeps and chimes of the game, a small solace in the monotonous journey.

On this trip, our family driver, Mr. Jung, a loyal man who had been serving my dad Jacques's family for almost a decade, was with us. His wife, a kind woman in her thirties, had recently given birth to their three-month-old son. They sat in the front seat, with Mrs. Jung cradling their baby next to her husband. I could see her gentle smile as she looked down at her child, a look of pure love and contentment.

Mom, Dad, and I were in the back. The van was filled with the cozy clutter of a family road trip: blankets, snacks, and the inevitable collection of souvenirs from our visit. The song "Top of the World" by the Carpenters was playing on the car cassette player, filling the air with its cheerful melody. We were all happily singing along to the music, our voices blending in a joyous harmony. Mom had been planning this trip for months, and now we were returning to France. It felt like everything was perfect, a moment frozen in time.

The winding road stretched into the distance, surrounded by fields. The sky was a clear, brilliant blue, with the occasional fluffy white cloud drifting lazily by.

Suddenly, there was a screeching sound, a jarring noise that cut through our laughter and music. Time seemed to slow down. I saw a truck looming in front of us, its massive form blocking the road. The world tilted, and I felt a jolt as the van swerved. My heart raced, and for a split second, everything went silent and still.

And then, chaos. The van lurched violently, and I was thrown against the seat. My vision blurred, and the last thing I remember was the look of terror on my parents' faces. Everything went blank, swallowed by darkness and a ringing in my ears.

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Then I woke up with the familiar, heavy weight of a dream lingering in my mind—a nightmare that I couldn't shake off, despite the brightness of a new day. The soft chirping of early birds broke the silence of my room, a gentle reminder that life moved on outside. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, my heart still racing from the night's haunting images.

Every time the memories resurfaced, they wrapped around me like a fog, conjuring images I wished I could forget. I could see the van, the terror on my parents' faces, and then the darkness that followed. It felt as though that moment was etched into my soul, a permanent scar from the past.

As the light filtered through the curtains, illuminating the room, I couldn’t help but think about what happened next. The details were crystal clear but painfully tragic. Mr. Jung hadn't survived the accident. I remembered his warm smile and the way he would joke with my parents, always treating me like one of his own. It was a sharp contrast to the memory of that day when his laughter was silenced forever.

Mrs. Jung had clutched their baby son tightly, her love for him palpable even in those final moments. She fought bravely for 6 months, but the injuries proved too much. The thought of that innocent child, left orphaned, struck a chord deep within me. It felt so unfair—the world had taken so much from him.

It was then that my parents made the choice that would forever alter our family dynamic. They opened their hearts and home to then 9-month-old Stefan, giving him a new name and a new life. I had been excited at the prospect of a younger brother, someone to share my toys and secrets with. But I also felt a weight of responsibility, knowing the trauma he carried.

Growing up, Stefan shared that he never remembered anything, being a baby after all. He grew up thinking that we, the Jacques, were his blood family until he started questioning our blond hair.

I sighed, pushing away the lingering unease of the dream. The sadness that clung to me like a shadow was stubborn, refusing to dissipate despite the years since the accident. Memories still found a way to resurface, especially since Stefan is coming home today. I glanced at the clock on my nightstand. It's time to start the day.

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The familiar, high-pitched cries of Goku battling Vegeta echoed from the living room. Honestly, it wasn't exactly my cup of tea, all those muscles and energy blasts. Give me a good old-fashioned romance anime any day. But as I padded past the doorway, a glimpse of the screen gave me pause. The vibrant animation, the sheer intensity of the fight, it held a certain allure.

I plopped down on the plush sofa next to Stefan, grabbing a throw pillow for good measure. He was completely engrossed, hazel eyes glued to the screen, a hand unconsciously mimicking a Kamehameha wave. A small smile flickered on my lips. For all his bravado and impulsiveness, he was still just a kid at heart.

"Never pegged you for a Dragon Ball fan," I commented, my voice a touch softer than usual.

He merely shrugged, eyes still glued to the screen, "It's kinda cool, don't you think?"

I hummed in response, settling back to watch the rest of the episode. It wasn't long before I was caught up in the action, impressed by the strategic fight choreography and the sheer determination etched on the characters' faces. Maybe there was more to this show than met the eye.

Next day, I was engrossed in a YouTube tutorial, attempting to master the intricate art of watercolor nail art. The delicate brushstrokes, the vibrant colors blending seamlessly, it was both challenging and therapeutic. I was so focused on achieving the perfect gradient that I barely registered Stefan's presence in the background. He was going through a series of awkward movements, arms flailing, legs kicking the air. It took me a moment to realize he was attempting (and failing miserably) to mimic the martial arts moves from Dragon Ball. I couldn't help but let out a chuckle, shaking my head at his antics.

He looked up, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. "What? A guy can dream, can't he?" he defended, rubbing the back of his neck.

I just rolled my eyes, a playful smile still lingering on my lips. "Dream on, little bro. Some things are best left to the professionals."

Two weeks later, I arrived home from a particularly grueling day of school, craving nothing more than a hot bath and my favorite K-Drama. But as I stepped into the quiet house, I was met with an unusual silence. Stefan, who was usually glued to the television by this hour, was nowhere to be seen.

"Mom, where's Stefan?" I asked, spotting her in the kitchen, expertly whipping up what smelled like her famous coq au vin.

She turned, a knowing smile gracing her lips. "He joined the school's karate club. Seems someone's been inspired by his anime."

I couldn't help but chuckle. Leave it to Stefan to dive headfirst into something that sparked his interest. Impulsive as always, but there was an earnestness to his actions that I couldn't help but admire.

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Then the memory of that one morning when he announced his plan was still as vivid as ever. Stefan had just graduated from high school a month ago and received a Yamaha Mio scooter as a gift from our parents. We were gathered around the breakfast table, our usual morning routine unfolding. Mom was meticulously arranging croissants, Dad was engrossed in the newspaper, and I was carefully plating my omelette.

Stefan, with his usual burst of energy, dropped the bomb. "I'm going to Tibet," he announced casually, as if discussing a trip to the grocery store.

I almost choked on my coffee. "Tibet? For what?"

He shrugged, a mischievous glint in his hazel eyes. "To become a monk. Find inner peace, you know?" Probably inspired by another Japanese anime he's been watching, or was it Chinese xianxia?

Mom's eyebrows shot up in surprise. Dad lowered his newspaper, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. I burst into laughter. "You? A monk? You can barely sit still for five minutes!"

Stefan, with his usual impulsiveness, had declared his intention to become a monk and, just like that, booked a one-way ticket to Tibet. Mom and Dad had stayed behind in our two-story home, their goodbyes said earlier that morning. Mom, always the elegant Parisian, had shed a few tears, while Dad, with a stoic pat on Stefan’s back, had slipped him a hefty wad of cash, no doubt for his unpredictable adventures. I, for my part, was secretly proud of his audacity.

I remembered that night clearly. Stefan, a lanky teenager back then, was practically swimming in one of my old t-shirts. All awkward limbs and messy dark hair, he was the antithesis of my meticulous grooming, well-styled hair, and the Chanel No. 5 that filled the air. I was taller, but only by a few centimeters.

As we embraced goodbye, I whispered, "Don't forget to call once in a while, you monk-in-training."

Stefan just laughed, his hazel eyes twinkling with mischief. "Who knows? I might come back enlightened."

And with that, he’d slung his backpack over his shoulder and disappeared into the crowd, leaving me to wonder if I’d ever truly understood my younger brother.

Weeks morphed into months, and Stefan's absence became a familiar ache in the house. His room, once a testament to his chaotic energy, remained untouched, a time capsule of his life before Tibet. Mom, ever the optimist, would often dust his belongings, her touch light, as if afraid of disturbing his lingering presence. Dad, a man of few words, had taken to leaving the newspaper open on the kitchen table, a silent invitation for Stefan to rejoin our morning ritual.

I, on the other hand, found myself drawn to Stefan’s social media, a digital window into his monastic life. It wasn’t quite the spiritual awakening I’d expected. Instead of profound quotes about enlightenment, Stefan’s feed was a chaotic mix of stray cat and dog memes, punctuated by blurry photos of adorable kittens he’d befriended on the streets of Lhasa. It was so quintessentially Stefan, finding joy in the simplest things. He never shared selfies, though. I had no idea what he looked like now. Was his hair longer? Did he have a tan?

His calls were infrequent, usually brief bursts of chaotic energy squeezed between his monastic duties. He'd recount hilarious encounters with mischievous monkeys, describe the breathtaking beauty of the Himalayas, or complain about the lack of decent croissants in Tibet. Despite the distance, his cheerful spirit remained undimmed, a beacon of light that chased away the shadows of the past.

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I adjusted the rearview mirror, smoothing down a stray strand of my blonde hair. Even in my casual weekend attire—a crisp white linen shirt, slim-fitting black jeans, and my favorite pair of Gucci sneakers—I looked… well, pretty. I wasn't one to brag, but it was a fact. I got it from my mom, along with her love for all things chic. Stefan always teased me about my meticulous grooming routine, but hey, a little self-care never hurt anyone. I smirked, picturing Stefan's reaction when he saw me. It had been almost four years, after all. He probably expected me to greet him at the airport in a chef's hat and apron, brandishing a spatula. Not a chance.

The airport was bustling with the usual afternoon energy, a chaotic symphony of rolling suitcases, excited greetings, and the occasional lost tourist looking bewildered. I parked my sleek black Porsche Taycan in the designated pickup area and sent Stefan a quick text.

"I'm here, you enlightened monk. Don't make me leave without you. I've got croissants." Bribery, I'd learned, was often the best way to handle Stefan.

The reply came almost instantly, accompanied by a string of laughing emojis.

"Be there in 5. And hold on to those croissants, I haven't had a decent one in ages! 🙏"

I chuckled, shaking my head. Leave it to Stefan to prioritize pastries over spiritual enlightenment. Still, a grin spread across my face. It was good to have him back. I missed our playful banter, his infectious laughter, and even his annoying habit of leaving empty coffee mugs scattered around the house.

Through the arrival gate doors, a stream of travelers emerged, each pushing a luggage trolley laden with suitcases and souvenirs. I scanned the faces, my anticipation growing with each passing moment. Where was that rascal?

I frantically searched the throng of disembarking passengers, my gaze darting from one face to another. I was looking for that familiar mop of messy dark hair, a lanky frame that usually trailed a step behind, a mischievous grin that could light up a room. But Stefan was nowhere to be found.

Had I gotten the flight details wrong? Was he stuck in customs, tangled in some bureaucratic absurdity involving incense and prayer beads? I chuckled, picturing him trying to explain the finer points of Tibetan Buddhism to a stern-faced official.

As I turned to check the arrival board again, I backed into something solid. Or rather, someone.

"Oof!" A deep voice chuckled, a sound that sent a jolt of recognition through me. I whirled around, my heart pounding.

Gone was the lanky teenager I remembered. Standing before me was a man who seemed to have sprung straight from the pages of a fitness magazine. Stefan's once-messy dark hair was now a military-style buzz cut, emphasizing his sharp jawline and the mischievous glint in his hazel eyes. His shoulders had broadened, his arms now corded with muscle that strained against the simple cotton t-shirt he wore. But the most startling change was his height. Stefan, who had always been shorter than me, now towered over me, a good three inches taller and radiating an air of easygoing self-assurance. I, used to being the taller brother, felt a strange mix of pride and…was that a flicker of intimidation?