After making it back home that night, I couldn't sleep.
So here I am the next day, slogging around the shop doing one last check before shutting down for the winter.
I'm only half-concentrating, my father's question echoing endlessly in my head.
The bell above the door rings.
I glance over—and my heart jumps.
Kaelith.
He's only wearing jeans and a long-sleeve shirt. How is he not shivering when winter's practically breathing down our necks?
"Afternoon, Nyra," he says, voice playful.
"Good afternoon," I reply, forcing a smile.
"What are you doing?"
"Counting inventory."
He walks behind the counter, his footsteps echoing through the floorboards.
I focus on the paper like my life depends on it—until he snatches it from my hands like a parent taking a toy.
"And how are you on sugar?" he asks.
I reach for the paper, but he easily lifts it higher, smirking. Of course he'd use his height against me. I have always been shorter than most.
"I'd know," I grumble, "if an oaf didn't keep my list from me."
He chuckles. "There's my Nyra."
He hands the sheet back, wandering toward my kitchen — already too comfortable for someone who keeps dropping by unannounced.
For a while, the only sounds are the scratch of my pen and the clatter of dishes.
The air feels heavy. Too heavy.
"Want to talk about it?" he asks sincerely, busying himself with the kettle.
I slam my notepad down. "No, not really."
He tilts his head slightly, surprised, before turning back around.
"If it's the poison again, like I said—"
I interrupt him—by hugging him from behind.
He doesn't move.
I bury my face against his back, letting his warmth swallow me.
He exhales slowly, lowering his head.
"ᚹᚺᚤ ᚲᚨᚾᛏ ᚤᛟᚢ ᛒᛂ ᚺᛟᚾᛂᛊᛏ ᚹᛁᛏᚺ ᚤᛟᚢᚱᛊᛂᛚᚠ" he whispers.
My head lifts. "What was that?"
"Nothing," he says quickly.
"I didn't recognize that language."
Common is the only language most people speak. So where did he—?
"You wouldn't," he mutters. "It's... for me and those in my profession. Though really, only one person still speaks it."
"You're fluent in it." I tilt my head. "Do you think you could teach me?"
He freezes. When he speaks again, his voice trembles.
"The day I teach you that language, Nyra... your world will have changed forever."
I blink. "Why?"
Silence.
The kind that fills every corner of the room.
Finally, he says, "I can't talk about this."
"Am I not special enough to know?" I take a step back, hurt slipping into my voice.
He clenches his fist. "I never said that. It's just—"
Hissssssssss.
The tea kettle screams, breaking the tension.
He grabs it off the burner, knuckles white.
I turn away, pretending to busy myself. Anything to stop the spiral in my chest.
Maybe Father was right. Maybe I'm not important to him.
It stings.
I stare down at the countertop, fighting tears. But before they fall, a cup of tea slides into view.
"It's not that you aren't special," Kaelith says quietly. "It's just... not time to talk about something that even haunts me."
I stare down at the tea.
"You've helped me more times than I can count," I whisper, take a breath and to face him.
"Whatever's bothering you, you don't have to carry it alone. I'm here. Always."
He looks shocked —just for a second—before schooling his expression and sitting at the table.
I join him.
We sip our tea in silence. His hand trembles slightly.
"One day," he says, "I'll tell you everything. But today isn't that day. Nor is tomorrow."
"I understand," I reply softly. "I'll be here when you're ready."
I place my hand on his.
Our eyes meet, with words unspoken between us.
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.
I jump up. "Oh no."
Kaelith immediately stands, hand already on one of his metal bands. "What's wrong? What's the threat?"
I rush to the cabinet, unlocking it in a panic. "Nothing! I just—I forgot my lessons were today!"