Page 18 of Till Orc Do Us Part
“Can I help?” he asks.
“You may hold the nails. Carefully.”
He does, watching each of my movements with rapt attention. I strip the rotted slats first, muscle memory guiding the work. The sun warms my back. Sweat beads at my brow.
“Why do you do this?” Jamie asks suddenly.
I glance down. “Repair is necessary.”
“No, I mean… why build stuff at all?”
I pause, setting the hammer aside.
“To leave something behind,” I say finally. “To create order from chaos.”
Jamie considers this. “Mom says the boardwalk’s full of stories. You can’t buy stories.”
I study him. “Your mother is… not wrong.”
He smiles, satisfied, and begins humming a sea shanty—off-key but earnest.
I work in silence, letting his small voice fill the space.
Time stretches. The bench takes shape beneath my hands—old bones given new life.
When I test the frame, Jamie claps.
“It’s happy now!”
I huff a laugh. “Benches do not feel.”
“Maybe not to you.”
I shake my head, amused despite myself.
Without warning—Jamie asks:
“Did you ever have a mom?”
The hammer stills in my grip.
I inhale slowly, the question sharp as a blade.
“Yes,” I say at last. “I did.”
“What was she like?”
I set the hammer down, gaze drifting toward the sea.
“She was strong,” I say quietly. “Proud. She taught me honor. Duty.”
Jamie tilts his head. “Do you miss her?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
The word is rough in my throat. I rarely speak of her. Rarely allow myself to remember.
