I whisper it to the wind.
“Come back.”
I stepinto the lounge hours before bedtime, dragging the hush of early evening behind me. Little shoes sit in a neat row by the low door, but one of them is off—it’s Pyramus’s, tipped on its side like a tipped star. I catch it with a soft chuckle and tuck it back upright.
My boy is two years old now—two wild, rolling years of laughter, questions, and tiny claws that dig into me when he’s excited or impatient or both. He’s on the sofa, half-propped up on a mound of pillows and blankets, his legs dangling off the edge. A stuffed star-ship lies beside him, its paint chipped. He’s tugging at the blanket with one hand and pointing at the window with the other.
“Mom—look!” he shouts, voice bright and loud and unashamed.
“What, baby?” I ask, sliding in next to him.
“There!” He points. “Big star. Big big.”
I turn my head and see a sliver of light blinking through the city smog, a lonely point in the sky.
“That’s a star, sweetheart,” I explain, gently smoothing his hair. His scales on his cheeks—soft and dusky red—catch the lamplight. Golden eyes like his father’s blaze back at me.
“Star like daddy?” he asks.
I freeze for a moment, becausedaddyis a word loaded with absence and longing and maybe hope. I swallow the lump in my throat.
“Yes,” I whisper. “Star like daddy.”
He sits silently for a beat, then nods, and his laugh erupts—bright, fearless, unburdened by shadows.
“Tell me story, mommy.”
His orders are simple. I always obey.
I settle in the big armchair by the window, Pyramus curling into my lap, blanket cocooning us. The city lights blur behind him, and I feel that familiar twinge of attention—Reflector hovering in the corner, soft blue glow, nanny-cam mode active. I don’t quite dislike it. In fact, sometimes I’m grateful. Someone is keeping tabs. Someone’s watching, silently, as I live this life.
“Okay,” I say, smoothing his blanket down. “Which one? The one about the warrior again?” He nods. “Or the one about the dragon’s moon?”
He picks the warrior. Always the warrior.
“All right,” I say, voice low and warm. “Once upon a time, in the far edges of the galaxy where the stars whisper secrets, there was a warrior with golden eyes. He was tall, and his skin bore the scars of battle and faith. He fought monsters—horrible monsters with claws like thunder and teeth like night.” I tap Pyramus’s cheek lightly. “But one day he came across a girl. A girl who had fire in her voice and a heart that refused to hide.”
Pyramus squeezes his little fists.
“The warrior thought he knew fear,” I continue. “But the girl showed him courage. He thought war was all he was good for—but the girl taught him this: it’s not always the battles youwin that make you strong. Sometimes it’s the ones you refuse to fight when you should have run.” I nod slowly. “And he fought them anyway because she believed in him—even when he didn’t believe in himself.”
He glances up at me, big golden eyes shining.
“Is he daddy?” he whispers.
My throat closes.
“Yes,” I say. “He is.”
He stares back at me a long moment; then he leans his head against my chest and says, “I like him.”
“I know,” I say, brushing his hair. “So do I.”
The story winds on: the warrior and the girl travel across a wounded ship, stave off the darkness, rebuild what was broken. They learn to live again. The monster doesn’t always die—but sometimes it learns to breathe beside you.
“And then,” I finish softly, “they found home. Not in a place, but in each other.”
Pyramus yawns, his breath soft on my collarbone. I sling the blanket tighter.
