Theea
you lose yourself when the wind flows through your hair
you taste freedom as you fill your lungs with air
you taste freedom as you fill your lungs with air
The moment Remi’s wings fold around me, something in the world goes quiet. Not the birdsong or the rustle of wind through leaves—those things stay—but the noise inside me. The restless hum I carry everywhere, the dull throb of ache I pretend isn’t there. All of it stills. It’s warm. The feathers are soft and sunlit, and they cocoon us in a hush that feels older than either of us. Like this place remembers how to hold sorrow gently. Like he does.
And then his magic touches me.
It’s not loud. Not insistent. Just there, slipping into the places I didn’t even know were hurting. The hollow where my father’s laugh used to echo. The aching space my mother left behind when she chose to stay in hiding. I always say I’m fine. That I’m used to it. But here—wrapped in this quiet, golden sanctuary—I can feel the lie of it stretch thin.
And still, I don’t cry. I press my face into his shoulder and breathe deep. I let myself feel loved, and it nearly undoes me.
“I’m glad you both came back,” I whisper, voice unsteady, like it’s made of glass and breath. “I don’t know how often people say that to you. But it matters. It means something—to know the world didn’t break you. That you still chose it, after everything.”
I shift slightly, enough to look up at him through the filtered light. My voice is quieter now, almost afraid of the answer.
“How did you decide?” I ask. “After hiding. After hurting. What made you come back?”
There’s something desperate and hopeful tangled in the question. Because I want to believe there’s a path back for her, too. I want to understand what that looks like. What it takes.
“Can I try to invite her?” I ask, barely louder than a breath. “To the party. I’ll write it carefully. Just a note, like the others. Just... a door left open.” I pause, blinking fast, and tuck back into the shelter of his arms. “I want her to see what’s waiting. I want her to remember that there’s still something good left.” Another breath. A little steadier now. “I want her to know she’s still allowed to come home.”
And then his magic touches me.
It’s not loud. Not insistent. Just there, slipping into the places I didn’t even know were hurting. The hollow where my father’s laugh used to echo. The aching space my mother left behind when she chose to stay in hiding. I always say I’m fine. That I’m used to it. But here—wrapped in this quiet, golden sanctuary—I can feel the lie of it stretch thin.
And still, I don’t cry. I press my face into his shoulder and breathe deep. I let myself feel loved, and it nearly undoes me.
“I’m glad you both came back,” I whisper, voice unsteady, like it’s made of glass and breath. “I don’t know how often people say that to you. But it matters. It means something—to know the world didn’t break you. That you still chose it, after everything.”
I shift slightly, enough to look up at him through the filtered light. My voice is quieter now, almost afraid of the answer.
“How did you decide?” I ask. “After hiding. After hurting. What made you come back?”
There’s something desperate and hopeful tangled in the question. Because I want to believe there’s a path back for her, too. I want to understand what that looks like. What it takes.
“Can I try to invite her?” I ask, barely louder than a breath. “To the party. I’ll write it carefully. Just a note, like the others. Just... a door left open.” I pause, blinking fast, and tuck back into the shelter of his arms. “I want her to see what’s waiting. I want her to remember that there’s still something good left.” Another breath. A little steadier now. “I want her to know she’s still allowed to come home.”
the time has stopped, your mind has set sail
the road is home, the stars will light the trail
the road is home, the stars will light the trail
