Theea
resilient little thing, just like mama raised you
It’s the kind of heat that sticks to your skin like honey, slow and smothering. Even with my hair yanked into a ponytail and wearing the loosest top I own—thin straps, open sides, still not enough—I can feel the sweat prickling down my spine. The shorts I’m in are new, or new-ish, and I keep tugging at the hem even though they’re not that short. My strappy sandals from Flora’s party tap lightly against the sun-warmed stone as I wander, a half-smile tugging at my mouth.
Torchline always feels a little like breathing out. The color, the noise, the salt on the air—it’s all summer and memory, and something like freedom. Mom and Dad were always… happier here. Less haunted. We only stayed a few times, but I still remember the tiny beach shack: weather-worn porch, cracked tile kitchen, the smallest bedroom I’ve ever curled up in. I’ve thought about trying to find it again, maybe fix it up.
I’m mid-thought when I spot it—the skeleton of a building. Not abandoned, not exactly. There’s movement in the ruins, and for a moment I think it’s just a construction crew. But then I see him.
Ronin.
It takes a second to process that yes, that’s him again, brow furrowed over a rolled-out blueprint. An axe holds one corner down, and a rock the other. He's a bit of a sweaty mess—as much as I am—but in that storybook-hero kind of way. Which makes sense. He is a hero from my bedtime stories. Literally.
I haven’t seen him since our whirlwind introduction at his barbeque. My heart kicks up like it wants to bolt, but my feet don’t move. Not away, at least. Swallowing hard, I glance once at the building behind him. It’s gutted, overgrown. A shell. But it looks like potential. So I step forward, slowly, sandals crunching faintly against the street.
“Is this place a story I’ve never heard,” I ask, voice a little more shy than I want it to be, “or something new?”
Torchline always feels a little like breathing out. The color, the noise, the salt on the air—it’s all summer and memory, and something like freedom. Mom and Dad were always… happier here. Less haunted. We only stayed a few times, but I still remember the tiny beach shack: weather-worn porch, cracked tile kitchen, the smallest bedroom I’ve ever curled up in. I’ve thought about trying to find it again, maybe fix it up.
I’m mid-thought when I spot it—the skeleton of a building. Not abandoned, not exactly. There’s movement in the ruins, and for a moment I think it’s just a construction crew. But then I see him.
Ronin.
It takes a second to process that yes, that’s him again, brow furrowed over a rolled-out blueprint. An axe holds one corner down, and a rock the other. He's a bit of a sweaty mess—as much as I am—but in that storybook-hero kind of way. Which makes sense. He is a hero from my bedtime stories. Literally.
I haven’t seen him since our whirlwind introduction at his barbeque. My heart kicks up like it wants to bolt, but my feet don’t move. Not away, at least. Swallowing hard, I glance once at the building behind him. It’s gutted, overgrown. A shell. But it looks like potential. So I step forward, slowly, sandals crunching faintly against the street.
“Is this place a story I’ve never heard,” I ask, voice a little more shy than I want it to be, “or something new?”
so you got that wildfire in your soul
don't you ever let it go
make it burn so bright that they all know
don't you ever let it go
make it burn so bright that they all know
