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The Council.
They don’t actually do anything but grow older.
“He is keeping secrets,” I say. “Aren’t we all,” says Dreska with a dry laugh.
A little truth makes a lie stronger.
I know my father’s story. I know it as well as the ones he told me, but I cannot tell it in the same practiced way. It’s written in my blood and bones and memory instead of on pieces of paper.
A small broken piece of me hopes I never know how, because my father wasn’t just a bedtime story.
The words have scraped my throat raw. Maybe one day the words will pour out like so many others, easy and smooth and on their own. Right now they take pieces of me with them.
