Home Tastes Like Memory
1070 Words
ECHOES OF BLOOD
Home had a smell.
Not the polished marble floors.
Not the expensive leather furniture.
Not the roses planted along the long curved driveway.
Home smelled like garlic, rosemary, warm bread, simmering stew, and something sweet baking in the oven.
It smelled like Mama.
The moment I stepped into the mansion that carried my childhood footsteps in every hallway, prison finally loosened its grip around my throat.
Not completely.
But enough.
The front doors opened wide, and old staff members lined the grand entrance, eyes wet, hands trembling, hearts too full for words.
Faces I knew.
Faces that helped raise me.
Faces Ghost had somehow failed to chase away.
Old Martha, who used to slap my hand whenever I stole biscuits before dinner.
Tall Themba, who taught me how to ride a bicycle in the back gardens.
Quiet Auntie Rose, who braided my curls before school when Mama was busy.
Their tears made something tender ache inside me.
“Nkosazana…”
Old Martha’s voice cracked.
Princess.
That was what they called me when I was little.
I smiled—a real one this time.
“You’re all still here.”
Themba straightened proudly.
“This house was built by Shostakovich blood, Miss Sasha. We do not abandon blood.”
I swallowed hard.
Loyalty.
Real loyalty.
Ghost had men.
My father built family.
Big difference.
Mama touched my back gently.
“Go bathe. Wash prison off your skin. Then come eat before I personally drag you by your ear like when you were twelve.”
I laughed softly.
“I’m twenty-six.”
“You are my child.”
That ended that conversation.
Forty minutes later, I stood in my childhood bedroom wearing soft linen trousers and one of Mama’s oversized shirts.
My curls were washed.
My skin smelled like lavender oil.
No prison uniform.
No steel bed.
No screaming at midnight.
Just silence.
Beautiful silence.
Then—
laughter.
Small laughter.
Bright laughter.
My body stilled.
A child’s laughter.
From downstairs.
My feet moved before my mind caught up.
Slowly, quietly, I descended the staircase, fingers grazing the polished wooden rail Viktor once carried me down when I pretended to be asleep.
The laughter came again.
Then I saw him.
And the world stopped.
Dmitri.
My son.
Six years old.
Long legs, barefoot on polished floors, racing a small toy car across the carpet while making engine noises under his breath.
Curly black hair.
Sharp little jaw.
And green eyes.
My green eyes.
Shostakovich eyes.
Strong blood.
He looked up suddenly.
Our eyes met.
Children know energy adults ignore.
He stared.
Not afraid.
Just curious.
Quiet.
Observing.
Measuring.
My heart pounded harder than it ever had in gunfire.
Mama stood by the dining room entrance, watching carefully.
Kwanda sat nearby smiling softly.
Neither interrupted.
Good.
This moment belonged to us.
Dmitri tilted his head.
Then looked back at his toy.
Then back at me.
“You’re the lady from prison.”
Knife.
Straight into my chest.
But my face stayed calm.
“Yes.”
His little brows furrowed.
“You look like me.”
I smiled faintly.
“You noticed.”
He stood slowly.
Still watching me.
Cautious.
Stubborn.
My father’s blood flashed there.
“Gogo says you know me.”
“I do.”
“How?”
I inhaled quietly.
Because truth has timing.
And children deserve gentle truths.
“I knew you when you were very small.”
He thought about that.
Then asked—
“Did I know you too?”
God.
Children can wound with innocence sharper than knives.
Before silence became heavy, Kwanda jumped in.
“She used to sing to you when you cried.”
Dmitri looked at me again.
Long.
Hard.
Then—
unexpectedly—
he walked closer.
Stopped just in front of me.
And pressed his tiny hand against mine.
Comparing.
His green eyes widened.
“We have the same hands.”
A laugh escaped me—soft and broken and healing all at once.
“Yes,” I whispered.
“We do.”
He nodded like that settled something.
Then turned around and simply said—
“Come play cars.”
Just like that.
No ceremony.
No acceptance speech.
Children move by feeling.
And somehow—
he felt me.
I sat cross-legged on the expensive carpet in linen clothes worth more than prison guards made in months—
and played toy cars.
Making engine noises.
Crashing them dramatically.
Losing races on purpose.
Dmitri laughed until his whole body shook.
That sound…
I would kill for that sound.
Burn cities for it.
And for one precious hour—
I was not The Crimson Flame.
Not Viktor’s heir.
Not Ghost’s betrayal.
Not prison.
I was simply—
Mama.
Even if he didn’t call me that yet.
That was enough.
For now.
Later that night, after Mama fed me until I thought I would burst—slow-cooked lamb, roasted vegetables, warm bread, and her honey pudding—Kwanda sat with me on the balcony overlooking Johannesburg’s glittering skyline.
The city looked peaceful from here.
Cities lie beautifully.
A shadow moved from darkness.
Silent.
Measured.
Respectful.
Scara.
Tall.
Scar over his right brow.
Eyes that had seen too much blood.
He stopped at the edge of light.
Never too close.
Men feared The Crimson Flame.
Wise men respected distance.
He bowed his head slightly.
“Boss.”
My eyes remained on the skyline.
“I’m retired.”
“No,” Scara said quietly. “You were caged.”
Interesting answer.
I smiled faintly.
“What do you have for me?”
His voice dropped lower.
“Gabriel Volkov has a board meeting in one week.”
My fingers slowly stilled around my wine glass.
“He plans to announce full ownership transfer under Volkov Holdings.”
Bold.
Stupid.
Beautifully stupid.
Scara continued—
“The sponsors will be there.”
Now that—
that got my full attention.
The old wolves.
The money.
The power.
Men who knew my father.
Men who watched me grow.
Men Ghost could never fully command.
I finally looked at Scara.
“Does he know I’m home?”
“No.”
Good.
Very good.
I leaned back slowly.
Prison taught me patience.
My father taught me timing.
And Ghost—
Ghost was about to learn fear.
Not yet.
But soon.
Very soon.
The Crimson Flame would make her entrance.
And Johannesburg—
would remember exactly whose blood built its shadows.
- Writer
