the sound of change

ASHE question: how do you make a monster stop feeling so monsterous? you give her something she can hold in her palms without crushing, you give her something sweet and tell her to keep it. I don’t mean to cry. But the moment I see her—really see her—with her arms around Theea, I know I don’t stand a chance. My mother and my daughter, folded into each other like two parts of my soul that had been torn apart and finally, finally stitched together. Gods, I never thought I’d live to see this. Tears slip before I can stop them. I swipe them away with the heel of my hand, but I’m still smiling. Wide. Full. My heart is overflowing, and somehow it feels like it can hold all of this—grief and joy in equal measure, not battling, just… coexisting. I ache, yes. I ache down to the marrow. Kalt should be here. He should be here with his stupid sarcastic comments and his overwhelming pride and his reverent, steady love. He should be standing beside me with his hand at the small of my back, watching our family become whole again, even if it’s only for tonight. But even as I ache, it doesn’t feel like a wound anymore. It feels like something sacred. Like carrying a locket you never open, not because it hurts—but because you know what’s inside. I miss him so badly it’s a burn in my throat, but for the first time in years, the pain isn't sharp. It’s warm. Heavy. Real. He’s still with me. With us. I don’t know how I know, but I know. I feel him like a shadow behind the flame, like a heartbeat under the skin. And one day—gods willing—I’ll see him again. Maybe not like this. Not in laughter and firelight and hugs. But seeing my mother, feeling her whole and alive even just for a night—it tells me he’s waiting. I believe that now. I feel it in my chest like a tide turning. So I step forward, still sniffling, and I wrap them both in my arms. My mother. My daughter. The roots and bloom of me. “I’ll be right back,” I murmur, voice thick but steady. I press a kiss into Theea’s temple and then Vai’s cheek, as if that might somehow imprint this moment onto my skin. And then I step away—not far, just enough to breathe, to steady myself before I come apart entirely. Gathering myself before I go and see my brothers. you wipe the blood from her hands you say her name, over and over like an absolution. you forgive her. you forgive her. you forgive.