I hesitated, unsure, and asked, “Just reading?”
Caz blinked, his brows furrowing before his expression faltered. “Oh gods, Odessa,” he stammered. “Yes, of course, just keeping my promise. I said I’d teach you to read, that’s all.”
“Right,” I said quickly, nodding and scrubbing the same spot on the bar more forcefully. “Just checking. I’ll swing by once I close up.”
A part of me wished I’d turned him down. But I couldn’t ignore the way I’d started to feel about Caz, something I didn’t quite have words for. The second he asked, my heart overruled my head, and before I knew it, I’d already said yes.
Once the last guest had finished their meal, and I’d wiped down the dining area and checked the stables, I found myself nervously adjusting my skirt and running my fingers through my messy, wavy hair. My heart raced, and I took a slow breath to steady myself. Just two steps from Caz’s door, I paused, lifted my fist, and knocked, once, then twice, and waited.
“Odessa?” Caz’s voice drifted through the door. “Come in, it’s unlocked.”
I carefully opened it and peeked inside. Caz was hunched over a desk, papers arranged neatly in front of him. When he heard me, he stood up, a smile stretching across his face.
“I’ve set up a spot for you over here. Come in and sit down,” he said, motioning to the table and the chair beside it.
I stepped toward the chair, scanning the room as I went. Not much had changed, Caz had brought little with him. The only signs he’d been there at all were his rucksack, a stack of leather-bound journals and books, and his tools, all neatly arranged by the bed.
Sitting down, I studied the sheets laid out before me, noticing they looked like something Caz had written himself. The pages were filled with large blocks of text, paired in twos and spaced evenly apart. One sheet even had just six symbols lined in a row.
Turning to him, I couldn’t help but feel a little lost. “What’s all this?” I asked.
“This,” Caz said, pointing to the pages filled with paired blocks of text, “is the alphabet. Each mark represents a sound. When they come together, they form a story, or sometimes just a part of one. They can also express thoughts or ideas.”
He traced his finger along one of the lines andlooked at me, his expression patient. “It’s not the letters themselves that matter, but how they connect. Some may look unfamiliar, but they each carry meaning. Once you understand how they fit together, the words start to take shape. Let’s start by memorizing them together.”
We dove in, and it was a mess from the start. A permanent furrow settled in my brow as I struggled to grasp the concept. The marks on the page blurred into one another. Caz began sounding out the symbols, and I tried to follow, but I stumbled more often than I wanted to admit, and my insecurities started to creep in.
Caz noticed my unease and gave a gentle smile. “It’s not as hard as it seems,” he reassured me. “Once you get the sound of each mark and how they change when placed together, the rest will fall into place. It’s like building something, each piece has its place. You’re doing great so far.”
We kept practicing, and after plenty of struggle, I finally started to get the hang of it. Before long, I had memorized the symbols and their sounds. Caz explained that depending on how they were arranged, the sounds could shift, but that was a more advanced lesson for later.
Then he pulled out the sheet with just six symbols and placed it in front of me.
“Can you sound this one out?” Caz asked. “It’s a little trickier.”
I stared at the page and gave it my best effort. “O—oh, duh, eh, sss, sss, aa.”
“Good!” Caz chuckled. “This is one of those words where the sounds shift a little when the letters come together. It actually spells your name. O-d-e-s-s-a. Odessa.”
I picked up the sheet and studied it. “This is how I spell my name?” I traced the symbols with my finger, following their bends and curves. “I’ve never seen it written before.”
“Now you have,” Caz said, smiling.
“How do you spell yours?” I asked.
Caz pulled the sheet closer and grabbed a piece of charcoal. Withbold, deliberate strokes, he wrote: “C-a-z-i-m-i-r. Cazimir,” he said clearly. “Or C-a-z, for Caz.”
I watched as the symbols came together, and for a moment, I thought they were the most beautiful thing I’d ever read.
Read.
I’m reading, I realized, a quiet thrill bubbling up in my chest.
“Pretty,” I said, admiring his handwriting.
Caz smiled sheepishly. “Alright, let’s keep going.”
We had already burned through one small dish of oil in his lantern, and when I glanced at the time, I realized it was terribly late. I needed to get home to check on my mother.
