hear the whispers of far away
I drift in, feeling typically out of place at a party—though less so here in the woods. I grew up out in the wild with my parents: an apartment here, a cabin there, a tiny almost-cottage, camping under the stars. I’m in a simple flannel a little too big, well-fitted pants tucked into my boots, and a big jacket. The soft light and pretty clothes hit me and… yeah. I’m very, very underdressed.
Shit.
My cheeks burn. I want to melt into the shadows like my mom can…but no. I wanted to be here. I heft the gift in my arms: a huge, fluffy, inexplicably heavy blanket. Mateo showed me the basics last season; I stitched this one—simple, black, sturdy.
I clock Nova (thank gods, more flannel—even if she makes it actual glitter-art), and the man from the hunting trip whose name I never got (what's he doing here?). But Maea stands out—pale and lovely in that dress.
I stride over and greet her warm. "You totally undersold the treehouse—this is amazing," I say, and then I offer the blanket, awkward but earnest. "I made this for you. Two layers for LongNight. The weight’s from sand sewn into the inside in little pockets in the inside layer." I rub a thumb over a seam, a thumb I'd pricked too many times while trying to finish this in time, nerves slipping out as a grin. "My mom made me one like it. I don’t sleep better than under that kind of weight. I thought… new home, good sleep."
A beat; I glance down at my flannel, then back up. "If the plain black isn’t your thing, I can add trim later. Or—" a quick flick to Nova, "Maybe Torchline's best designer can make it something to look at."
Shit.
My cheeks burn. I want to melt into the shadows like my mom can…but no. I wanted to be here. I heft the gift in my arms: a huge, fluffy, inexplicably heavy blanket. Mateo showed me the basics last season; I stitched this one—simple, black, sturdy.
I clock Nova (thank gods, more flannel—even if she makes it actual glitter-art), and the man from the hunting trip whose name I never got (what's he doing here?). But Maea stands out—pale and lovely in that dress.
I stride over and greet her warm. "You totally undersold the treehouse—this is amazing," I say, and then I offer the blanket, awkward but earnest. "I made this for you. Two layers for LongNight. The weight’s from sand sewn into the inside in little pockets in the inside layer." I rub a thumb over a seam, a thumb I'd pricked too many times while trying to finish this in time, nerves slipping out as a grin. "My mom made me one like it. I don’t sleep better than under that kind of weight. I thought… new home, good sleep."
A beat; I glance down at my flannel, then back up. "If the plain black isn’t your thing, I can add trim later. Or—" a quick flick to Nova, "Maybe Torchline's best designer can make it something to look at."
Theea
dreams of a brighter day
