CHAPTER 2
Elaine Kent stood at the sink, elbow-deep in suds, trying not to glance at the clock again. The breakfast rush had come and gone, and Jerome was outside in the yard, chasing a soccer ball between the budding rosebushes. The sun filtered through the kitchen window in slanted beams, and everything smelled like cinnamon toast and damp spring air.
It had been a full year since she and Jerome left Metropolis. Since she stopped being Lois Lane.
She still thought of herself that way sometimes, in the quiet moments when the house stilled and the weight of what she had left behind crept in. But she was no longer that woman. Not entirely. Elaine Kent lived a quieter life in a modest rental near Tulsa’s city edge, with a boy who made mud pies and asked questions she still didn’t know how to answer.
Jerome had settled into kindergarten with an ease that made her heart ache. He was bright, social, brave. And more and more, she could see Clark in him—in the curve of his smile, the tilt of his head when he concentrated, the way he never let another kid sit alone at lunch.
Elaine dried her hands and moved to the window, watching as her son kicked the ball off a tree and cheered as if he’d scored at the World Cup. He turned, catching her gaze, and waved.
She waved back and smiled. But her chest felt tight.
The memories came and went like weather. She never could predict them. Some days she went hours without thinking of Clark. Other days, he was in everything—the way the coffee brewed, the headline font at work, the sound of Jerome’s laugh.
There were days she caught herself nearly calling out his name when Jerome did something especially clever. Nights when the loneliness settled like fog on her shoulders and she reread his old notes or stared too long at the photo beside her bed. She wondered what Clark would’ve made of this life: the slow pace, the garden they’d planted in the back, the new neighbors who waved without asking questions.
She missed him most in the quiet—in the hours between dinner and bedtime, when the house grew still and her mind wandered. She’d sit on the porch with a glass of wine, listening for something that was never coming. A familiar whoosh, a shadow streaking across the sky. A sign that maybe miracles still happened.
She’d tried to bury her grief under work. The Tulsa World had taken a chance on her. As Elaine, she’d earned her way back up from junior staff to feature reporter. It wasn’t investigative journalism, not yet—but she was building something again. Slowly. Carefully.
Sometimes she still wondered if she had done the right thing. If hiding her name had been a retreat rather than a fresh start. But then she looked at Jerome. At his happiness. At the peace he had here. And she knew it had been worth it.
The knock at the door was sharp. Unfamiliar.
Elaine frowned, wiping her hands on a towel, and crossed the kitchen. She opened the door—and froze.
Zara stood on the porch, her posture rigid and regal, dressed in human clothes that somehow still looked too formal. Beside her was Ching, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable.
“Lois Lane?” Zara asked, her voice soft but clear.
Elaine stared. The name barely registered. “Yes,” she said slowly, her chest tightening at the sound of her real name spoken aloud after so long.
Zara looked past her, toward the living room. “We need to speak with Clark.”
Elaine’s blood went cold.
Her heart kicked against her ribs, once, then again, too hard and too fast. She felt the ground shift beneath her, though she hadn’t moved. Her fingers tightened around the edge of the doorframe.
They had said his name. Her name. Clark.
She blinked, her throat suddenly dry, and stepped aside on reflex. “Come in,” she said, though her voice didn’t feel like it came from her. It was quiet. Hollow. Like she was watching herself from a distance.
She gestured toward the living room, feet moving mechanically. Her body remembered how to host even when her mind couldn’t catch up. The old instinct of politeness pulled her along, muscle memory making room for guests she hadn’t asked for—had never imagined she’d see again.
Her hands trembled as she reached for the fridge pitcher, the clink of ice against glass louder than it should have been. She could feel their eyes on her, both alien and familiar, waiting. Expectant. As if she might shatter or scream or run. And she didn’t blame them—because all three felt like viable options.
Instead, she carried two glasses into the room, her grip too tight around the rims. She set them on the coffee table with a faint clink.
For a moment, she just looked at them. Zara—still regal, still unreadable. Ching—solid, still coiled like he expected a fight.
Elaine’s voice came out low. “Start talking.”
Ching didn’t hesitate. “We returned him to Earth nearly twenty months ago.”
“What?” The word escaped her like a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
Zara nodded solemnly. “He was gravely injured in the war. His spinal cord was severed during an ambush.”
Elaine’s breath caught.
Her hand flew to her mouth as a strange sound—half gasp, half sob—escaped her throat. Her mind scrambled to visualize it: Clark—strong, certain, invincible—crumpled on some foreign battlefield, alone, in pain. Her legs trembled as her knees threatened to give out.
Zara continued, voice gentler now. “Under Kryptonian law, nobles who suffer such injury are... disposed of. But we convinced the Council to allow him to return home.”
Elaine stumbled back a step and caught herself on the coffee table. The edge bit into her palm, anchoring her in the spinning room.
“They were going to kill him?” she asked, voice hoarse.
“Yes,” Zara said simply.
A nauseous wave rolled through her. The idea of Clark being sentenced to death—not because of treason or war but because he’d been hurt—burned in her throat like bile.
“And he survived that,” she whispered, tears brimming in her eyes. “He came back from that, and I didn’t even know.”
She stood fully upright, bracing herself. But a new truth hit her—colder than the last.
“You’re telling me…” Her voice cracked, barely above a whisper. “Clark’s been back?”
Neither of them moved.
Elaine’s voice rose, sharper now, cutting through the heavy air. “He’s alive? He’s been here all this time—and he didn’t come to me?”
Zara’s expression shifted—sympathy overtaking formality. “We assumed he would. You were the first person we thought he’d go to.”
Elaine stared at them, heart thundering in her chest. Every inch of her wanted to collapse under the weight of it—every cell in her body seemed to ache with betrayal. Her mind tried to hold two truths at once: Clark was alive. And Clark hadn’t come home.
She shoved herself to her feet, the sudden movement scraping the chair across the hardwood. Her chest felt too small for the grief rising inside her.
She turned her back to them and crossed to the window, needing space—air—something. The cool pane of glass met her hand, grounding her, barely.
Outside, Jerome’s laughter rang through the yard like a lifeline.
Elaine closed her eyes and let it hold her for just a moment. But the hurt returned with teeth.
“He should have come,” she said, voice trembling. “No matter what happened to him, he should have come.”
Behind her, the silence deepened until Ching finally said, “We came to find him. We have something that may help him. A treatment that could reverse the damage—if administered soon.”
Elaine turned slowly. Her face was pale, her expression carved from something rawer than anger.
“And you thought he’d be here.”
Zara nodded once. “Yes.”
Elaine crossed her arms over her chest, instinctively protective. “I haven’t seen him since the day he left with you,” she said, steady now. “And if he’s alive somewhere on this planet—hiding from me—then maybe he doesn’t want to be found.”
Zara took a small step forward. “That’s not true. He wanted to protect you. He was afraid of being a burden.”
Elaine met her eyes directly for the first time. Her voice, when it came, was low. Fierce.
“He was never a burden. Not to me. Not for one second.”
She sat down slowly, hands gripping her knees like they were the only thing keeping her from falling apart. Her whole body felt brittle—like she’d been holding her breath for four years and had only just started to exhale.
“I’ve spent the past four years raising our son alone,” she said, her voice quiet but sharp at the edges. “I grieved him. I moved halfway across the country. I gave up my name—because hearing it out loud hurt too much. And you’re telling me he’s been alive this whole time?”
Neither of them answered. They didn’t need to. The silence between them was an answer all its own.
She looked up again, blinking hard to keep the flood from breaking. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Tell him something for me, if you find him.”
Zara nodded.
Elaine stared down at her trembling hands. “Tell him I love him. Tell him I’m still waiting. And tell him—” she paused, unable to hold the tears back this time, “tell him our son is beautiful.”
Zara reached forward, resting a hand gently on her arm. “We’ll try.”
Then, without ceremony or explanation, they vanished.
The sudden absence made the room feel colder.
Elaine sat in the hush that followed, the door still ajar, the world outside unchanged. The clock ticked on the wall. Somewhere down the street, a lawnmower buzzed faintly. But inside her, everything had shifted.
She didn’t know how long she sat there before the soft pad of Jerome’s feet on the porch pulled her back.
“Mom? Who were those people?” he asked, leaning into the doorway, his face filled with the easy curiosity of a child who had no idea his world had just realigned.
Elaine stood and met him halfway, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder and guiding him into the kitchen.
“Just someone asking for directions,” she said, the words tasting like ash in her mouth.
Jerome tilted his head. “They looked important.”
She knelt in front of him, brushing the hair back from his forehead. “They were,” she whispered. “But not as important as you.”
She pulled him into her arms and held on longer than he expected. Long enough for her breath to settle. Long enough for her voice to return.
Clark was alive.
And somehow, some way, she was going to find him.
