Theea
a lost son is called a prodigal
I snort when she says it, loud and unfiltered. “Blow shit up?” Her grin is all teeth and trouble, and I laugh outright. “You and my mom would get along disgustingly well.”I can already picture it: the two of them elbow-deep in some wildly irresponsible plan involving fire, lightning, explosives, and probably a little petty revenge for flavor. The thought warms something in me, even as it stings a little too.
“I’ve never actually asked a god for anything.” I say it like it’s casual, but the words feel heavier than they sound.
Because that’s not true. Not really.
I think back to those early months after my dad died, when I was still small enough to believe that gods might make exceptions if you begged hard enough. I’d whispered to Mort and Vi every night for months, at every shrine we stopped near. Pleaded. Bargained. Promised anything, everything, just to have him back.
Mom did that and more. She searched. Hunted, really. Tore through every lead, every rumor, every half-spoken legend that hinted at resurrection or time magic or divine favors. She'd even considered returning to Ronin until she learned how recently deceased someone had to be. The longer it went on, the quieter it all got. The less possible it became.
Eventually, I stopped begging. Settled for my lantern. Settled for staying close to Mort in the only way I could—by offering him my grief instead of my fury. I don’t know that mom ever settled.
Melita’s voice pulls me out of it.
She offers to ask. For me.
My brows shoot up. “Wait, really?” I blink at her, caught off guard. “You’d do that? For—” I fumble, motioning vaguely at myself. “For some random kid at a shrine?” My cheeks puff out with a big breath. “I mean, I could definitely talk to my uncle too—Remi. You’re right.” I look down at my hands for a moment with an awkward clearing of my throat, then back up. “I don’t even need a message back. I just want to know it got there.”
That he heard it. That he knows how much I still miss him. That I’m trying, every day, to be someone he’d be proud of. Even if it’s just one word, floating through the dark. Even if it’s never answered. I just need to know there’s still something. Anything at all.
a lost daughter is just called lost
