How did you do all this without magic?
What would you trade for if not food?
What do you need to live?
I stare at those words again.
What do you need to live?
Something about them strikes a deep chord inside me.
But emotional, magical—and perhaps existential—exhaustion from the events of the day so far sneak up on me. And with a full stomach and nothing to do to focus my resolve on, sleep takes me.
WhenIwake,theworld is dark.
Disoriented, I lie still, taking a moment to feel the blankets beneath me, to remember where I am.
And on the tail of that, to rememberwhyI’m here.
It comes crashing down on me, a weight settling on my chest and holding me down.
I can’t simply sleep my responsibilities away.Thatwas weakness. And yet, facing the enormity of what I’ve done again, alone in the darkness—I try to breathe through it.
And in so doing, I hear the sound of other breath.
Tasa.
Maybe I can situp after all.
My eyes adjust—it’s nighttime, but there’s a window letting through just enough moonlight that I can see, first, that she has covered me with more blankets, which arrests me.
It’s not that no one has ever been concerned with my comfort. But this feels different. Not someone trying to maintain the health of an asset, just... care.
I move quietly so as not to disturb her and find her sleeping peacefully in her bed.
Part of the weight on my chest eases.
At least I haven’t disturbed her peace so much that she can’t still find it here, with me in her home, in herroom.
But she has many fewer blankets than I do—which seems typical for her, to concern herself with others’ comfort before her own, but nevertheless not acceptable—so I gently drape some of the ones she gave me over her instead.
Her breath hitches, and I freeze.Did I try to help and make everything worse, ruining a fragile peace after all—
And then she relaxes, burrowing into the greater warmth.
I take a breath.
And when I let it out, I make myself back away—before I can disturb her in truth—and creep out into the main room.
I’m awake, and I don’t know what else to do, but Tasa tasked me with making bread, and if that is theonething I can do, then I ought to at leastdo it.
As I wait for the bread to bake before starting another batch, I finally realize that the beautiful book is open on the table.
I’d seen it, but now I make the connection that it had still been on my lap when I’d fallen asleep, which means Tasa must have moved it.
And may have seen more of myself than I have allowed anyone to before—perhaps even myself.
With a mix of anticipation and fear, I slowly make my way to the book.
