Page 114 of Nobody Told Me Thrift Shops Sell Stolen Dragon Heirlooms

“It’s not final.”

“No,” he said. “But it’s a great deal more than silence.”

My mother looked between us. “Which sword?”

The question was soft, but it was forceful as it moved through me.

My father turned toward her. “Your great-grandfather’s story, Aoi. The loyal retainer who stayed behind so your great-grandparents could escape.”

Her brows drew together. “Takeshi?”

I went still.

The name hadn’t appeared in most of the records. Only in one damaged family document, and in a notation my grandfather had made decades after the war. My mother had known it before the Fog, of course. Before names became birds startled loose from the trees.

“Yes,” I said carefully. “Takeshi.”

Her face cleared for one bright moment. “My father said he had a laugh like a kettle.”

My father covered her hand with his. I barely breathed, afraid if I did, she would retreat again.

“He would sing while he sharpened the blade,” she said. “Badly. He had a terrible voice. My mother said the sword had survived war, but perhaps not music.”

A small laugh escaped my father. His eyes shone, though his voice stayed even. “I don’t think you’ve told us that before.”

“Haven’t I?” She looked surprised, then amused. “Well. I’m telling you now, Rafael. Do keep up.”

“I’ll try, my love.”

“Are you bringing it home?” she asked me.

“I’m trying my best.”

“Good.” She nodded once, with sudden firmness.

I looked down at my tea, but from the corner of my eye, I saw my father’s thumb move slowly over my mother’s hand.

“We’re hopeful,” he said to me.

“Don’t be too hopeful yet.”

My father gave me the look he’d used since my childhood when I mistook caution for wisdom. “Hope isn’t a contract, Rafe. It needn’t be enforceable to be useful.”

My mother smiled. “That sounds clever.”

“He has his moments,” I said.

She leaned toward my father, stage-whispering, “Was he always so severe?”

“Always,” my father said.

“I was not,” I said, a spark of indignation in my tone.

“You were a very serious baby.”

“I was an observant baby.”

“You glared at a mobile for six months,” my father teased.