I'll let it burn the way the sunlight burns my skin
Noah stayed where he was, hands braced on his knees, shoulders drawn inward as if he could fold himself around the ache in his chest. The quiet sounds of Grimm’s work, the pull of linen, the soft shift of the ramphire’s breathing, formed a steady backdrop, and in that rhythm memory slipped in.
The last time he and Lena had spoken, they had not talked about rest or small comforts. They had spoken of work. Of the long, ugly shadow the Family had cast over Caido, of the damage still festering in hidden places, of the vigilance it would take to be sure it never spread again. Lena had looked at him with tired eyes and spoken of the work to be done in the Celestine, for the Tower, and he had taken the time to clean the Vi and Safrin srhines.
His jaw tightened. A breath shuddered through him, quiet, controlled, the way Halo taught its children to endure the cold. This place offered no answers. Only memory. After a moment, Noah pushed himself up from the bench, grief settling heavy and silent in his bones, and turned to leave.
FIN
The way I feel inside, the way the day begins
infinite inspiration and endless thanks to odd and sky
