you drew memories in my mind I could never erase
painted colors in my heart I could never replace
There is something oddly serious in Adam's voice, something Amalia can sense even in her current state. A little unsteady, she sits up on the bed, curling her legs back under herself as she waits for him to continue his tale. This moment, she feels... it's important, and as much as she may have opinions about his actions and intentions, the baker knows that now is the time to hold her peace.
Her breath, too. Because as Adam raises his fingers in the shape of a gun Amalia feels her stomach drop, fear and denial bubbling up before he can say the words. She had thought he robbed the man in his sleep, but this implication is so much worse. Biting her lip, the girl sits, tense, waiting for him to confirm her fears, not wanting to hear those words. She had known he was a thief with a sordid past, but murder?
Murder is something else entirely.
So it is with great restraint that she keeps from sighing relief as he admits he hadn't followed through, hadn't hurt the man who hurt him so. She has no words to comfort him: it is the path she would have wished for him, but clearly not the one he asked for himself. What can she say, that would possibly help? That killing him wouldn't have made it better? That the man no doubt suffered in some other way? None of it can erase his sadness.
Nothing she says will bring back his father, just as nothing she does will bring back her grandmother.
So as Adam begins to sob Amalia sits quietly, not saying anything, only reaching an arm to curl around his shoulders, an offer of empathy and support.
Her breath, too. Because as Adam raises his fingers in the shape of a gun Amalia feels her stomach drop, fear and denial bubbling up before he can say the words. She had thought he robbed the man in his sleep, but this implication is so much worse. Biting her lip, the girl sits, tense, waiting for him to confirm her fears, not wanting to hear those words. She had known he was a thief with a sordid past, but murder?
Murder is something else entirely.
So it is with great restraint that she keeps from sighing relief as he admits he hadn't followed through, hadn't hurt the man who hurt him so. She has no words to comfort him: it is the path she would have wished for him, but clearly not the one he asked for himself. What can she say, that would possibly help? That killing him wouldn't have made it better? That the man no doubt suffered in some other way? None of it can erase his sadness.
Nothing she says will bring back his father, just as nothing she does will bring back her grandmother.
So as Adam begins to sob Amalia sits quietly, not saying anything, only reaching an arm to curl around his shoulders, an offer of empathy and support.
meet me where the falling stars live
Amalia
