Theea
a lost son is called a prodigal
I clear my throat before the silence can stretch too long.“Oh, I’m sorry,” I echo back. "Really—it’s fine. You don’t have to go.”
My voice is a little hoarse from disuse today, or nerves, or both. I shift my weight, manage the kind of smile that’s meant to reassure but probably just looks lopsided. “I’m not good at this with an audience, but I swear I’m harmless.”
Red hair, bright eyes, a dragon, and a vampire gourd? That jogs something. I think I heard about someone like her. Once. In a story involving something that may or may not have exploded. Caido’s full of those. What was the name…? Has to be the same person.
Still, I don’t recognize her beyond the edges of rumor. Doesn’t matter. She seems kind. Or at least not the type to judge someone for looking like they’re about to cry in front of a death god.
I step in, jacket brushing against my legs. I kneel by the shrine, setting down the bundle I’ve been holding like it might run off if I loosened my grip.
Unwrapping it is a slow thing. Inside: three pineapple tarts I made this morning. A little singed at the edges but still good. And a small wood-carved dragon, no bigger than my palm. I whittled it weeks ago when I couldn’t sleep. Its wings are uneven and its face looks vaguely confused, which, honestly, makes it feel more personal. Dad taught me how.
I arrange them at the foot of the statue, careful without overthinking it. Then I sit back on my heels and look up at Mort’s face—the parts worn smooth by hands that came before mine.
“Mort… Just tell him I said hello, yeah?” I murmur. “And that I love him.”
It catches in my throat a little, but I don’t let it break me open. Not here. I press my hands together briefly, then glance back at the redhead and give her one of my half smiles, trying not to look like I’m unraveling
“I’m Theea. Didn't mean to interrupt.”
a lost daughter is just called lost
