Prodigal

She's imperfect, but she tries She is good, but she lies She is hard on herself She is broken and won't ask for help She watches as he settles onto the stair, still on edge, not trusting the blight. Yet as he speaks she finds herself moving, shifting forward in her seat, a new sort of tension marking her body, hope rising steadily in her throat. The way he speaks, the things he says- they feel like honesty, like clarity. They feel, she thinks, like him. Slowly, carefully, Amalia rises, the blanket falling back on the chair, her long hair loose about her shoulders, a cautious expression on her face. From behind her, Jyoti coos, peering over the Shield's shoulder as they stare down at the man. She can hear the thundering of her own heart beneath her tunic of soft grey wood, can feel the urge to run to him, to see if the impossible has truly come to pass. But she doesn't believe it, cannot believe it. That is, until he apologizes. "Jigano?" the baker repeats softly, tears in her dark eyes. "Is it... you?" a m a l i a She is messy, but she's kind She is lonely most of the time She is all of this mixed up and baked in a beautiful pie She is gone, but she used to be mine