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I blink as it suddenly dawns on me that Cyprian is talking about Father, my father.
"What happened next?" I ask, my focus on his story sharpening despite the dull hum in my head.
"He gave it to me, and inside was the most beautifully illustrated children's book. I couldn't read yet, but I didn't have to. The pictures spoke more than any words could."
Cyprian clears his throat, shifting on the bench to reach into his pants pocket before gently placing a tiny, worn book down on the table between us.
"You kept it, all this time?" I gasp, reaching out to gently trace the beautiful lines that have now become worn faded over the years.
"Of course, I kept it," he answers softly, his eyes distant. "Your father showed me more kindness in one day than I'd known my whole life."
A smile tugs at the corners of my lips, despite the ache in my heart. I'm not surprised to hear such a sweet story about my father, his kind soul never would have allowed him to leave a child crying alone in the streets.
"There's something else," Cyprian says, making me glance up into his sad eyes. "Look."
He opens the small book on the table to the first page. There's a beautiful illustration of a little brown-haired and blue-eyed girl holding a chicken ... and below it an inscription.
To my darling, Hazel. I wish you the happiest of birthdays, with all the love this world has to offer.
I stare at it, barely able to comprehend what I'm seeing.
"I-I don't understand. I've never seen this book in my life."
"I think he gave me what was supposed to be your birthday gift," Cyprian says, his jaw working for a moment as if the words are difficult for him. "I think he couldn't bear for a child not to have a love for books."
"That does sound like him," I say quietly, my fingers gently tracing the lines of my name.
"I know it sounds stupid, but this book changed my life. Your father changed my life, Hazel ... and—"
"Oh gods," a ruddy-faced woman interrupts, dropping onto the bench across from us. "Is he dead?"
"What?" I blink in shock at her as Cyprian slips the tiny book safely back into his pocket.
"Your father, is he dead?"
"I-I don't think so," I answer, my stomach twisting sickeningly at the thought.
"Oh, thank the gods," she sighs, practically flattening herself against the table in relief. "I was worried you being here meant ... Well, you know."
The woman rambles on, jumping from topic to topic so abruptly that I can hardly keep up. My fingers tighten around my own goblet as I listen to her tell story after story of my father and how terribly sorry she is that he is unwell.
"Have you finished your drink?" Cyprian asks when the woman is finally dragged away from us by her need to relieve herself.
Glancing down at my goblet, I'm surprised to find it empty.
"Yes," I answer with nod.
"Good, let me get you another. If I'd realized you'd be accosted by nearly ever patron here, I'd have brought you somewhere quieter."
"I don't mind the noise," I say. "It keeps my own thoughts at bay."
"Very well, I'll be back in just a moment," he says.
The way my head is already spinning, perhaps I shouldn't allow him to fetch me a second goblet, but I don't stop him as he crosses the room. I watch as he leans against the bar on the far side of the tavern, chatting familiarly with the bartender.
Until something catches my attention out of the corner of my eye.
At first, I think it's a trick of the light, or perhaps my mind ... but I could almost swear that I saw something like an giant inky shadow slip into the tavern.
