My throat tightens. I draw in a breath, rich and bitter, the smell of new cotton and synthetic fibers. I can faintly detect Vira’s favorite soap in the enclosed card pocket. The kind of detail she’d use to make me feel taken care of.
I drop to my knees and press palms flat on the floor. I pick up a onesie, finger the seam, the smooth embroidery. My chest twists—something like longing, something like fear. I think:What would he be like?Kyldak. As a father. Those callused hands raised to protect, golden scales warmed to cradle. My heart hammers in my ears. I throw the onesie across the room. It lands soft against the wall, a sound like a quiet gasp.
I hate thinking like this. I hate him, half broken, half flame—and I absolutely hate that this little garment feels like betrayal.
I slip under the cold light of the holo-lamp and call Vira.
She appears in her holo-frame, sun-lit patio behind her. She’s in sleepwear, messy hair, sipping something bright. She grins like she caught me doing something stupid.
“Package arrived?” she asks before I even speak.
I clear my throat. “Yes.” My voice is rough. I stand and pace. “What the hell did you get me, mask-maker?”
She laughs, that way that lights up the corners of her eyes. “Just stuff I found when I was browsing baby gear. Jokes,mostly. But also... hope. I figured maybe it’d annoy you enough to laugh.”
I muscle a smile. “You’re a cruel woman.”
“You love it.” She leans forward. “Are you okay?”
I open my mouth. Close it. Open again. “I,” I correct myself. “I might need you to hold this for me.” I gesture to the pile on the carpet.
“Of course.” Vira tilts her head. “You know I will. Always.”
I swallow. “Thanks.” I pad over, pick up the plush lizard. Squeeze it once. “Good night.”
She nods. “Night, Jae.” Then she vanishes.
I sit on the couch, lizard in hand, the onesies half folded across my thighs. I try to sleep. I fail. The stitch of regret and yearning digs deep. My dreams that night braid together flame and scales and whispering—his name echoing softly.
Morning comes too soon. The light is sharp through the window slats. I wake stiff with regret and determination. I dress fast—work shirt, utility pants, boots. I taste the bitter tang of caffeine on my tongue before I even make it to the holo-caf.
I breeze through diagnostics, then walk the garden path outside the rehab wing—hands in pockets, boots stirring dew off biolum leaves—and there is Kyldak. Leaning on a modified cane, stepping slow but steady, his silhouette framed by soft green glow. He sees me and gives a curt nod.
I join him. The air is cool, damp with living green. The scent of moss and warm stone presses around us. His cane clacks faintly against the paved path.
“You’re making progress,” I say. I mean it.
He snorts. “I wobble less than yesterday.”
I grin. “That’s improvement.”
He looks at me. “This path… you pick good walks.”
I slow. “I like when the world is quiet.” I hesitate. “When you’re here.”
He flushes. “Don’t—just—don’t romanticize scars.”
I stop. The garden hushes. Fireflies drift like drifting stars. His cane thumps once. He moves his hand to the rail of a shaded arbor.
I step closer. The gap between us is narrow. Tension like stretched wire.
“I’ve always felt like I have to fix things,” I blurt. “Not because I can—but becausesomeoneshould. Because I watched parts of me and parts of others break, and no one ever asked if the pieces still fit.”
He studies me. The amber in his eye flickers. The cane sinks deeper into ground.
He says quietly, “Maybe you were born to break the rules.”
The admission stings. It’s not comfort. But it’s truth.
