Water is a mirror, reflecting our strengths and weaknesses, our hopes and fears.
Grinning, she takes it as a compliment he'd pick her to tell, even knowing her inclination towards sharing the information. Her hand raises to seal the promise but pauses when his teasing comments draw a light bout of laughter. "I would never even consider it." She reaches forward to chase his finger, wrapping her own around his like the links of a chain that would never break - the trust that he and all her clients place in her. There's a determination and stubbornness in her gaze, the only hill she'd be willing to die on as she smiles. "Pinky promise."
When her hand falls away, Elizabeth tucks it under her chin and pieces together the new bits of information he offers. He seems set on walking the same path, but she'd perhaps misunderstood his hesitancy to do so. Letting out a hum, she studies Iskra a little closer. "Hmm. I see. So it's not necessarily that you don't want to continue their legacy..." Instead, it's a fear of not living up to it, nervous about not being enough in comparison, scared that the work they spent their lives on won't withstand time.
Elizabeth is tempted to remind him again that it's not his job to do that, to fill the shoes that may have already served their purpose. Memories fade with time, no matter how much we fight it, like messages written in the rocks of the shore, water and wind and sand and sun slowly eat away at the words until they're nothing but faded indents. People who remember those messages might etch them deeper, but it doesn't change the fact that time will still win in the end.
But she doesn't say anything this time, making the decision to let him figure out how to achieve whatever it is he's looking for. She'll caution him when necessary, but nothing Iskra says makes her think he's on the path to self-destruction, so she determines to do what she sometimes struggles with as a therapist: wait. Wait for him to grow, wait for him to discover things on his own, wait for him to seek her again.
Smiling gently, she asks, "What do you plan to do?"
When her hand falls away, Elizabeth tucks it under her chin and pieces together the new bits of information he offers. He seems set on walking the same path, but she'd perhaps misunderstood his hesitancy to do so. Letting out a hum, she studies Iskra a little closer. "Hmm. I see. So it's not necessarily that you don't want to continue their legacy..." Instead, it's a fear of not living up to it, nervous about not being enough in comparison, scared that the work they spent their lives on won't withstand time.
Elizabeth is tempted to remind him again that it's not his job to do that, to fill the shoes that may have already served their purpose. Memories fade with time, no matter how much we fight it, like messages written in the rocks of the shore, water and wind and sand and sun slowly eat away at the words until they're nothing but faded indents. People who remember those messages might etch them deeper, but it doesn't change the fact that time will still win in the end.
But she doesn't say anything this time, making the decision to let him figure out how to achieve whatever it is he's looking for. She'll caution him when necessary, but nothing Iskra says makes her think he's on the path to self-destruction, so she determines to do what she sometimes struggles with as a therapist: wait. Wait for him to grow, wait for him to discover things on his own, wait for him to seek her again.
Smiling gently, she asks, "What do you plan to do?"
Elizabeth
