[SE] like you never left, like you said you never would

Theea

a lost son is called a prodigal

 It’s twilight when I reach the shrine—a favorite time, really. Everything’s softer now. Edges blurred, voices quieter, even the sea seems to hush itself like it knows better than to interrupt. The heat’s mostly gone, traded out for the kind of breeze that makes you want to close your eyes and pretend there's nothing but that moment.

The statue’s still here, same as always. Worn and sea-bitten, arms open, face gleaming where people have touched it for generations. I love that part. That you can see where everyone reached, like they all wanted to be held, or maybe remembered.

I almost step forward, but then I see I’m not alone.

There’s already someone at the shrine. I can’t quite make them out through the half-light, just the shape of them standing there in silence, like they belong to the moment in a way I suddenly don’t.

So I stop, self consciously tug at the hem of my shorts. My jacket shifts around my legs as I settle back into the shadows, too big and a little damp at the sleeves, clinging to the salt in the air. The bundle in my hands feels heavier now. Wrapped cloth, neat corners, warm from where I’ve been holding it too long. I press it to my chest like it might disappear otherwise.

It’s been... a while since I visited a shrine. Not on purpose—everything else just got louder. All this chasing after family I’d never met, trying to prove to myself I’m more than some girl with a sad story and a good right hook. Mom was once so irreverent to the gods, Dad said. Then she met Mort, brought Ronin back, and she became so pious—raised me that way too.

I used to pray more often. Back when it was just me, Mom, and the stars and the hope that if I reached out enough, maybe someone would reach back. I don’t know if Mort ever listened, but I liked to think he did. That talking to the god of death might somehow be a way to stay close to my dad. Maybe Ludo too, in its strange way. Not for answers—just... company. The kind that doesn’t go away when the world moves on.

But it feels weird now. Doing this with someone else here. I’ve always done it alone. Like grief’s something I have to carry with both arms and a half-smile so no one tries to take it from me.

a lost daughter is just called lost