"What are you thinking?" His violet eyes search my face.
"That maybe we need to change things." The idea has been forming all day, solidifying into something concrete. "Not forget Daryn—never that. But make the house feel less like a shrine and more like a home again. Give Ami space to remember him without being constantly ambushed by grief."
Understanding dawns in Valas's expression. "A makeover."
"Sort of." I bite my lip, hoping this doesn't sound foolish. "We could paint Amisra's room—she's mentioned before that she wishes it was different colors. Box up some of Daryn's things carefully so they're preserved but not overwhelming. Maybe redo the study so it's not so painful to walk past. Honor him but make space for us to actually live here."
"That's—" Valas pulls me onto his lap, arms secure around my waist. "That's a really good idea, starlight. Thoughtful and kind and exactly what she needs."
Relief floods through me. "You think so?"
"I know so." He presses a kiss to my temple. "We can start tomorrow if you want. Make it a project we do together—all three of us."
"All three of us," I repeat, testing the words. Testing what they mean. A family working together to build something new from the ashes of something lost.
It feels right.
We startwith Amisra's room.
Valas takes her to the market to pick out paint colors while I sort through her toys and clothes, creating piles of things to keep, donate, or tuck away for when she's older. When they return, Amisra is practically vibrating with excitement, clutching swatches of pale lavender and soft gold.
"Keira, look!" She shoves the samples at me. "Uncle Val says we can paint clouds on the ceiling if we want. Real clouds that actually move!"
I shoot Valas a look over her head. "Spoiling her already?"
"Absolutely." He doesn't even have the grace to look apologetic. "She deserves spoiling."
We spend three days transforming her room. Valas handles the magical aspects—enchanting the paint so it glows faintly at night, creating those promised clouds that drift lazily across the ceiling, adding protective wards that make the space feel safe and warm. I manage the practical details, hanging new curtains in cheerful patterns, arranging her toys and books on freshly painted shelves, making the bed with blankets we picked out together at the market.
Amisra helps with everything, her small hands eager to contribute. She tells us stories while we work—memories of her father, things he used to say, games they played together. Some make her cry but she's smiling through the tears, like finallybeing able to talk about him without the crushing weight of fresh grief is its own kind of healing.
"Papa used to say I was his little star," she announces on the second day, carefully applying lavender paint to the baseboard while Valas and I handle the higher sections. "Because I was born when the stars were brightest."
"That's beautiful, little bird." Valas pauses in his work to look at her. "And very true. You're definitely bright enough to be a star."
"Did you know Papa when I was born?" She tilts her head, curious.
"I did." Valas sits back on his heels, paint-splattered and smiling. "I was there actually. Came to visit him at the healing house right after you arrived. You were this tiny, screaming thing wrapped in blankets and your father looked absolutely terrified."
Amisra giggles. "Papa was scared?"
"Petrified." Valas's expression goes soft with memory. "Kept asking me if all babies were supposed to be that small and if he was holding you right. I told him he was doing perfectly and he informed me I was a liar but appreciated the attempt at comfort."
I listen to them talk, my chest tight with affection. This is good for both of them—keeping Daryn alive through stories, honoring him while making space for new memories.
After Amisra's room, we tackle the rest of the house in careful increments.
We box up Daryn's clothes one afternoon while Amisra naps, folding each piece carefully and packing them in spelled containers that will preserve them indefinitely. Valas tells stories as we work—about the jacket Daryn wore to some formal function where he got spectacularly drunk, the shirt he tore during a training exercise, the cloak he claimed made him lookdistinguished but really just made him look like he was playing dress-up.
"He hated formal events," Valas says, running his fingers over a particularly ornate tunic. "Used to complain for days beforehand. Said having to be polite to people he didn't like was its own form of torture."
"Sounds familiar." I give him a pointed look.
"I have no idea what you're implying." But he's grinning as he folds the tunic and adds it to the box.
We keep some things out—a few books on the shelves, personal items scattered throughout the house as reminders rather than shrines. It's a delicate balance but we manage it together.
The study takes the longest.
