Survival From Walking Dead

ch : 8

Adrian pov

I sat at the dinner table, the aroma of roasted chicken and the chatter of my parents filling the air. My father, a stern figure, sat at the head of the table, his plate neatly arranged, while my mother, her kind eyes flickering with warmth, sat to his right, occasionally offering more food.

I cleared my throat, a lump forming as I prepared to broach the subject. "Dad," I began, my voice barely above a whisper.

He looked up, his gaze meeting mine, an eyebrow raised in silent inquiry. "What is it, Adrian?" he asked, his voice steady.

I fidgeted with my fork, the metal cool against my fingertips. "Actually, there's this tour this Sunday... it's for 12 days. I really want to go," I said, my voice gaining strength.

My father's eyes narrowed slightly, a hint of disapproval in his gaze. "No," he said firmly.

"But why?" I protested, my heart sinking. "It's my last year of school, please, Dad. Let me go."

He shook his head, his decision unwavering. "No, Adrian. It's your last year, and I want you focused on your studies. Think of how much you can revise in 12 days."

I clenched my jaw, frustration boiling within me. "Dad, I've already studied everything. It's just 12 days. I want to enjoy life too," I argued, my voice tinged with desperation.

My mother's voice, gentle yet firm, cut through the tension. "Honey, maybe we should consider it. He's worked hard, and a little break might do him good."

My father sighed, his features softening as he considered her words. After a long pause, he finally nodded. "Alright, Adrian. You can go. But remember, your studies come first."

Relief washed over me, and I couldn't help the grin that spread across my face. "Thank you, Dad, thank you, Mom. I promise, I won't let you down."

As we continued our meal, the weight lifted from my shoulders, and for the first time that evening, I truly tasted the flavors on my plate.

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Ahvi pov 

The path to my father's office was a familiar one, lined with the echoes of a home that once brimmed with laughter and love. Now, it felt more like a mausoleum, each step a reminder of the mother I lost and the family that once was. I paused at the heavy oak door, its surface cold under my touch, and knocked.

"Come in," came the gruff response from within.

I pushed the door open and stepped inside. The room was a fortress of solitude, walls lined with bookshelves groaning under the weight of legal tomes and case files. My father sat behind a massive mahogany desk, his silhouette framed by the dim glow of a desk lamp, eyes fixed on the papers sprawled before him.

"Dad," I began, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside.

He didn't look up. "What do you want, Ahvi?"

I took a deep breath, steeling myself for the conversation I'd rehearsed a hundred times in my mind. "I'm going on a tour this Sunday. It's for 12 days. I wanted to tell you now."

Finally, he raised his head, his eyes meeting mine with an intensity that made me flinch. "A tour? Now? When you should be focusing on your future?"

I clenched my fists, fighting the urge to argue. "It's just 12 days, Dad. I need this."

He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. "Ahvi, you know how important this time is. You're at the cusp of your career."