“Wasn’t supposed to be soft.”
She doesn’t fill the silence with empty words, and I find I’m grateful for that. Most people try to patch the quiet with apologies or sympathy, but she just lets it sit with us like a third presence, unbothered and real.
By the time we finish, the new step is solid beneath our feet, and I test it with my full weight before I stand back and cross my arms.
“Won’t win any beauty contests,” I say. “But it’ll hold through winter.”
“Perfect,” she says, and then gestures toward the table near the door. “You want tea?”
I hesitate. It’s stupid. I know it. But I hesitate.
And then I nod once.
She pours two mugs. Hers is already flavored with something floral. Mine she leaves plain, just hot and bitter, the way I like it. She hands it over like she’s done it a hundred times before, not like she’s guessing.
We sit in the shade just past noon, the forest quiet around us except for the faint call of crows deeper in the Hollow. The wood beneath me creaks faintly, and her breath fogs the rim of her mug before she takes a sip.
She doesn’t look at me when she says it. “Does it hurt?”
My brows draw together. “What?”
She lifts her eyes, gestures faintly toward her own mouth. “Your tusks. I mean… you don’t have to answer. I’ve just wondered. They look... sharp. Like they might dig into your skin when you talk.”
It’s not the first time someone’s asked about them. But it’s the first time someone’s asked like that. Not with fear. Not with curiosity dipped in discomfort. Just… softness.
“They grew in early,” I say, voice low. “Broke through before I was fully grown. They tear the inside of my upper lip if I’m not careful. The skin scars, then heals. Then tears again.”
Her face falls, not with pity, but with understanding. “That sounds miserable.”
“You get used to it.”
“That doesn’t make it less miserable.”
I shrug.
She leans back, eyes narrowing slightly. “You always do that.”
“Do what?”
“Brush off pain like it owes you something.”
I don’t have a good answer for that, so I sip the tea instead. It’s hot enough to scald, but I let it.
She waits. She always waits.
Then she smiles, but it’s small. “Mari asked if you were a good monster or a bad one. I told her you were your own kind of monster.”
I glance at her, and there’s no heat behind it. “And what did she say?”
“She said, ‘good.’ Just like that. No hesitation.”
She looks at me again, longer this time.
“I think she’s right.”
Something tightens in my chest, and I don’t know what to do with it. So I shift my weight and look out into the trees, at the way the light flickers through the branches like it’s trying to spell something I’ll never be able to read.
“I was raised to be a weapon,” I say after a long moment. “That doesn’t always leave room for softness.”
