Theea
a lost son is called a prodigal
I smile at the thought of Mel and my mom causing trouble together. It’s too easy to imagine—grins like firelight, soot on their fingers, something broken and still sparking behind them. Yeah. They’d be dangerous in the best way. “You two would make a hell of a team.”When she mentions Remi, I nod, unsurprised. I’d heard stories—he and Ludo, before. It’s just one more thread in this huge woven history I’m only now finding my place in. It makes sense. Still feels a little unreal sometimes, being related to people like that. “I do feel safer,” I admit. “Knowing they’re out there, that they’d fight for me if I needed it.”
But I glance back at the shrine, and something settles deeper in me. “Still want to stand on my own, though.” I always have. Not because I don’t trust them—but because I want to be worthy of them. Of my mom. Of the people I’m just beginning to know.
The light’s getting lower now, warm along the stone edges of the shrine. I look up at Mort’s face—worn smooth by generations of grief and hope—and exhale slowly. “I was angry at him for a long time.” My voice is soft, steady. “But I’m not anymore. I’m... grateful.”
Because somehow, knowing Mort is caring for my dad—blissfully, no less—and that Ludo ferried him there gently… it’s enough. It gives me something to hold onto when the grief claws up again. It doesn’t make it hurt less. It just makes it bearable. I don’t say that out loud. But in my head, I whisper it—thank you, to Mort. Just in case he’s still listening.
I turn back to Melita, something lighter blooming in my chest. “Maybe I need to treat things a little more lightly, too.” I glance at the offerings, at the place I left my little dragon. “Ludo’s like the embodiment of remembrance, right? Maybe it doesn’t want us to cry every time we remember someone. Maybe it wants us to smile.”
I pause, then look back at her with a small, thoughtful smile. “What do you think Ludo would have me do, instead of weeping?”
a lost daughter is just called lost
