I think I can manage being collateral damage
"Isla?" Everest’s voice carries from down the hall, steady if slightly preoccupied. "I saw you removed the railings from Fern's crib, I—" He steps into the living room mid-sentence, a folded blanket in his hands, already preparing to continue with something about safety adjustments and developmental timing, when the rest of the thought fails to arrive. The blanket loosens in his grip as his hands lower slightly, his attention caught and held by the figure seated at the edge of sunlight. He goes still, not abruptly, but with the kind of quiet halt that comes from his mind attempting to reconcile what he is seeing with what he knows to be true. Isla left with an infant. Isla has returned with a girl much older. There is precedent for this. There are explanations, several of them, all viable, all already catalogued somewhere in his memory, and yet the immediate reality of it requires a moment to align with those stored conclusions.
He tilts his head slightly, blinking once, then again, as though the second pass might produce a different result, though it does not. The girl speaks, and something about the way she describes the light—its movement, its predictability—slots neatly into place, and he finds himself nodding. Ever's grip on the blanket tightens again, restoring order to something that had briefly lost it, and he draws in a slow breath through his nose.
"Oh," he says quietly, the word less surprise than recalibration, before his gaze flicks briefly toward Isla and then returns to Fern, reassessing scale, posture, the coordination of her movement, the way she occupies the space with cautious certainty. He steps forward then, measured and deliberate, approaching as though the variable has changed shape but not identity, his attention fixed on her with careful intensity. "Welcome back," he adds after a moment, voice even now that the initial adjustment has settled, before glancing up towards Isla. "I suppose this is why the railings were removed."
He tilts his head slightly, blinking once, then again, as though the second pass might produce a different result, though it does not. The girl speaks, and something about the way she describes the light—its movement, its predictability—slots neatly into place, and he finds himself nodding. Ever's grip on the blanket tightens again, restoring order to something that had briefly lost it, and he draws in a slow breath through his nose.
"Oh," he says quietly, the word less surprise than recalibration, before his gaze flicks briefly toward Isla and then returns to Fern, reassessing scale, posture, the coordination of her movement, the way she occupies the space with cautious certainty. He steps forward then, measured and deliberate, approaching as though the variable has changed shape but not identity, his attention fixed on her with careful intensity. "Welcome back," he adds after a moment, voice even now that the initial adjustment has settled, before glancing up towards Isla. "I suppose this is why the railings were removed."
Even if I had to lose you to know you I'd still be that temporary phase that you grow through
