Aries didn’t ask why. He just nodded—the kind of quiet, knowing nod that only comes from years of friendship, from seeing each other through too many storms to need an explanation.
They sat in silence a moment, the crate between them.
Aries fingered the dusty pages. “Some of these are dated before we were born. Just... amazing.”
Collin let out a slow breath. “Have you ever wondered if Grandfather only told us the good things? I can’t remember a single story that showed them in a bad light.”
“I’m sure you’re right.” Aries ran a finger along the rough edge of the box. “But he was trying to protect us. Do you remember anything from before?”
Collin tried—again. But the images were vague, unfinished. “I know my mother sang to me. I think I remember a song, but not the tune. Not the words. I wish I could hear their voices again...”
“I don’t remember mine at all,” Aries said, voice low. “Only what Grandfather’s told me. What I see in my head are his memories, not mine. But you—this is a treasure, Collin. You’ve been given something rare. A way to really know them.”
“I know,” Collin murmured, brushing the box lid with his palm. “I’m just... not ready. They’ve been hidden this long. A little more time won’t ruin them.”
Aries rose and leaned in the doorway, watching him. “Well, whenever you are ready—just so you know—I’ll be here.”
Collin nodded. Then, almost without thinking, he closed the lid with a soft snap and looked up. Something in him, weary of grief, reached for light.
“Do you want to go fishing at the cove?” he asked. The words surprised even him—but not the small, rising spark of hope that came with them.
Aries’s whole face brightened. “Great idea! I’ll ask the fellows when I’m in town tomorrow. Should we make it a campout?”
And just like that, the heaviness inside Collin loosened.
“Absolutely.”
They shared a quick meal before turning in for the night. Collin moved through his bedtime ritual by habit: nightshirt, hair combed out, clothes tossed into the basket. But as he fluffed his pillow, his mind was still with the crate. Still turning the pages he hadn’t yet dared to read.
Curiosity wrestled with fear. The pull to know his parents—to truly know them—was almost too strong to resist. What were they like, beneath the stories? Was his mother quiet or bold, gentle or flirtatious? Was his father full of pride or quietly steady? His hand hovered over the stack. Then, slowly, he slid one page free.
July 14, 477
This is my third trip to Chroma since I met Ismene in the spring, and still I find no words big enough to hold what I feel for her. She’s more than beautiful—she’s bliss itself. When I see her, something in me steadies and trembles all at once.
I met several of her friends tonight at Isaac and Alienor's wedding. It was a warm gathering—laughter, music, full tables. I spoke with Izin, who is easy company. His wife, Zinnia, is several months with child now, lovely and joyful. Her black hair spills to her waist like a waterfall—truly, the women of Chroma are radiant. But none catch the light the way Ismene does when she smiles. She is sunlight itself.
After the banquet, I walked her home. We stopped beneath an old gnarled oak in a moonlit clearing. The air was cool, soft. The moon was so bright it silvered her shoulders. I was enchanted, but I didn’t mind the spell. Under that tree, I kissed her for the first time. I don’t know how long we stood there. I only remember her breath on mine and the quiet certainty in my chest, I will marry her. Somehow, someday—I will.
—Jiah
September 29, 478
Today I asked Ismene’s father for her hand in marriage.
He refused.
She hadn’t told me she was promised to Constantine. The news felt like a slap, not just because of the promise, but because she kept it from me. I don’t know what hurts more—her silence or her father’s certainty that I’m not good enough.
What am I to them? A field hand’s son. My father picks cotton on land owned by Constantine’s family. I can’t give her land. Or wealth. Or a father’s blessing.
But I can give her joy. I can give her my life.
Her father says love won’t put food on the table. He’s not wrong. But Constantine may give her everything but love, and she doesn’t love him. Not the way she looks at me beneath that old oak tree where I want to build our house. Not the way her fingers brush mine when no one is looking.
I love her. I’ll fight for her. I’ll make her father see that I’m not asking to earn Ismene—I only want the chance to build a life with her. To wake beside her. To raise children in a home we make together, even if it’s modest. Even if it’s hard.
She deserves everything. And I may never own cotton fields or herds of sheep. But no man will love her more than I do.
