"You're supposed to be disappointed in me."
"Why? Because you grew teeth?" He laughs, and it sounds like every happy memory from my childhood compressed into sound. "I raised you to be kind, and you were. I taught you to be principled, and you are. But I never taught you to be helpless. That was your mother's preference, not mine."
"I'm not kind anymore."
"You're kind to the people who deserve it. That's not a failure of kindness. That's wisdom."
I don't know what to say to that. So I just lean into him, letting him hold me the way he did when I was small and scraped knees were the worst injuries I could imagine.
"Am I still your Izzy?" The question comes out childlike. Broken.
"Always." He kisses my hair. "No matter what you've done. No matter what you become. You're my daughter. That doesn't expire."
"I miss you."
"I know."
"It doesn't get easier."
"It's not supposed to. Grief is just love with nowhere to go. The weight doesn't get lighter—you just get stronger." He pulls back, meeting my eyes one more time. "Keep building, Izzy. Keep surviving. And when it gets too heavy, remember that somewhere outside of time, I'm proud of you. Always proud. Never disappointed."
"Even for the blood?"
"Even for the blood. Even for the fire. Even for every single thing you had to become to stand here breathing." He winks. "You're a Davenport. We carry flames. It's what we do."
I wake up crying.
Good crying.
The kind that cleans instead of corrodes.
Sergei holds me without asking why. Doesn't demand explanations or offer solutions. Just wraps around me and breathes slow and steady until I remember how to do the same.
"Dream?" he murmurs eventually.
"Dad."
"Bad one?"
"No." I press my face into his chest, letting his heartbeat sync with mine. "Good one. For the first time in a year. A really good one."
"What did he say?"
"That grief is love with nowhere to go. That surviving isn't the same as failing. That he's proud of me. Always proud."
Sergei's quiet for a moment. Then: "Smart man."
"The smartest."
"You're a lot like him."
"The fire?"
"The fire. The stubbornness. The way you love people—completely or not at all. No half measures." His hand slides into my hair. "You're also like your mother. The strategy. The steel. The willingness to do what's necessary. But you get to choose which parts win."
"What if I choose wrong?"
"Then we course-correct. That's what partners do."
