i am trying to wander more
The lighthouse hums like a held breath above me, its glow steady as a heartbeat. The sand around the shrine catches the light and throws it back in a scatter of stars, even though the sky is still pale. I left a note on my door to whoever might
I cradle the little unicorn in both hands. The carving is smooth from years tucked in pockets and palm-lines, the wood darkened by oil and time. Dad made this one when I was small—before the fall, before the part of the story where everything is supposed to end. I run my thumb along the ridge of its neck, feeling each careful notch where the mane is.
I set it down at the base of the offering stone and straighten, palms pressed together to keep them from shaking. When I smile, it’s a quiet thing, small and serious.
"Vi," I whisper, voice steady despite the prickle in my eyes. "Thank you. For lending my father life when he should have died. For holding him back from Mort’s arms."
The words linger in the salt air. The tears surge and blur the starlit sand; I blink hard, sniff once, and they retreat with a burn that makes me feel real and alive. I touch two fingers to the unicorn’s back, like I’m tucking it in, then step away.
Boots off. The cold bites as I press my toes into the glittering shore, and I curl them deeper until the chill goes from ache to anchor. I carry the boots by their laces and cross to where the water beads up like glass before it breaks. Then I sit, knees hugged to my chest, chin on the crown they make, and look toward the line where ocean learns the sky.
I think, for a moment, of calling on Safrin to really give the offering, but I don’t. I’m still nervous to call upon the gods again, nervous that I haven’t done what’s expected of me—whatever that is.
I cradle the little unicorn in both hands. The carving is smooth from years tucked in pockets and palm-lines, the wood darkened by oil and time. Dad made this one when I was small—before the fall, before the part of the story where everything is supposed to end. I run my thumb along the ridge of its neck, feeling each careful notch where the mane is.
I set it down at the base of the offering stone and straighten, palms pressed together to keep them from shaking. When I smile, it’s a quiet thing, small and serious.
"Vi," I whisper, voice steady despite the prickle in my eyes. "Thank you. For lending my father life when he should have died. For holding him back from Mort’s arms."
The words linger in the salt air. The tears surge and blur the starlit sand; I blink hard, sniff once, and they retreat with a burn that makes me feel real and alive. I touch two fingers to the unicorn’s back, like I’m tucking it in, then step away.
Boots off. The cold bites as I press my toes into the glittering shore, and I curl them deeper until the chill goes from ache to anchor. I carry the boots by their laces and cross to where the water beads up like glass before it breaks. Then I sit, knees hugged to my chest, chin on the crown they make, and look toward the line where ocean learns the sky.
I think, for a moment, of calling on Safrin to really give the offering, but I don’t. I’m still nervous to call upon the gods again, nervous that I haven’t done what’s expected of me—whatever that is.
Theea
i have been trying to breathe more, to love my lostness
