“Every night, on my walk back from the docks, I pick those yellow flowers you always loved by the side of the trade road. I listen to you tell tales to our littles as they fall asleep. They never go to bed cold, or hungry, or wondering if they’re loved.” She tightened her grip on my hand, her voice thick and low. “Kase.” I didn’t stop; the words kept tumbling out. “My mesmer will grow stale because our family has nothing to fear. We grow old in the cottage, Mallie. We watch our children have children, and they never know what it means to be without a home. They never know what it means to
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Crying at this
