Psychro Killer: Chapter 19 - Resolution?

The reunion between Helena, Yannis, and Niko wasn’t the cathartic, tear-filled scene Niko might have imagined, or maybe even hoped for. There were tears, sure—Helena and Yannis couldn’t help themselves—but for Niko, it felt hollow. Everything had been laid bare, and the wounds opened, but instead of healing, they seemed to fester. Yannis accepted the letter but did so begrudgingly, grumbling about how “anyone could write a letter,” and how it didn’t erase years of bitterness.

“Sure, maybe he didn’t kill her,” Yannis finally admitted after reading the letter, his voice drenched in a weariness that had clearly been with him for decades. “But the damage is done. I’ve wasted too many years hating your father.” He tossed the letter down like it was a scrap of useless paper. “Doesn’t make him a hero. Just a stupid man who ran.”

Niko couldn’t argue with that. He’d wanted some grand vindication, but now it just felt anticlimactic. His father wasn’t a murderer, but he wasn’t some misunderstood genius either. He was just... a coward. A man who made mistakes and left others to pick up the pieces. Niko felt a deep bitterness settle into his bones, colder than the revelation he had sought for so long.

Helena had wept, of course. She clung to Yannis like she’d been waiting her whole life to see him again, and in some ways, maybe she had. Niko stood by, feeling like an outsider, watching his mother’s quiet sorrow. She had her brother back, but what had he gained? More confusion. More disillusionment.

Hestia, as expected, didn’t linger. She had made her decision to retreat back into her solitary existence, and Niko couldn’t blame her. In fact, he almost admired her ability to walk away from the madness of village life, knowing that no matter how hard he tried, he’d never escape the shadow of his father. Niko was done chasing ghosts, but that didn’t mean the ghosts were done with him.

As for Stamatios, the young man seemed adrift. His worldview had been shattered, and though he longed for the connection with Niko, the pull of his mother and the life he had always known was stronger. It was a bittersweet farewell. They didn’t need to say it out loud, but both knew they would see each other again. Not regularly, not in some idyllic “let’s play family” way, but enough to keep the bloodline from fading into nothing. They’d meet once a year—Niko’s annual, obligatory visit, a quiet acknowledgement that their lives had been derailed by the same man, even if they had taken vastly different paths.

And then there was Elena. She was the only one who truly seemed to flourish in the aftermath. Her paintings, once hidden in shame and fear of rejection, had become a window to another life. She didn’t need anyone’s approval anymore, least of all her father’s. She had found her voice, and in doing so, she had left behind the village’s stifling expectations. Niko couldn’t help but feel a pang of jealousy, watching her go from strength to strength while he remained tangled in his own mess. Her success didn’t make him smile—it just reminded him of how far he had to go.

When it was all said and done, Niko stood alone in the place he once thought might hold the answers. The village, the family, the past—none of it had been what he’d imagined. No grand revelations, no tidy resolutions. Just more broken pieces scattered around him.

So what now? Go back to London? Resume the life of an opera conductor like none of this had happened? He scoffed at the thought. That man, the one who lived for music and orchestrated life with precision, had died a long time ago, back when Zoe’s heart stopped beating. Whoever he was now, it wasn’t someone that fit neatly into a concert hall.

He lit a cigarette, taking a long drag and blowing the smoke into the twilight air. What a waste, he thought. Not just his father’s life, but everything. The lies, the secrets, the years spent chasing down the truth only to find out it was as messy and disappointing as everything else. Niko didn’t want a new start. He didn’t want peace. He wanted to live with the truth, ugly and raw as it was.

So he left the village. Not in some grand gesture of escape, but just... left. He’d come back when he felt like it, maybe see Stamatios, check in on Elena’s art career. But he wasn’t tied to this place. He wasn’t tied to anything anymore.

As the wind picked up and he walked down the dirt path away from the village, he muttered under his breath, "What now, Dad? What the hell am I supposed to do with this mess you left behind?"

There was no answer, of course. There never would be. And maybe that was the only truth he needed.