Page 54 of Till Orc Do Us Part
The door hisses shut behind her.
And I am left alone with the hum of the monitors, the chill of the air, the taste of memory that will not fade.
I rise, pace to the glass wall.
The city sprawls beneath me—perfect grids, sleek towers gleaming beneath gray skies. But no salt wind stirs here. No laughter echoes across warped planks. No stubborn bookstore stands defiant beneath the weight of progress.
I press a palm to the glass, fingers aching.
"Some things are worth bleeding for."
The words I told her were truer than I knew.
And gods help me—I don’t know how to stop wanting her. Or this place.
I turn from the window.
There is a flight to catch. A promise to break.
Or maybe a promise to keep.
Hours pass.
I bury myself in calls, meetings, reports—anything to still the pull beneath my ribs.
But each time I circle back to the project timeline, my hand hovers over the approval button.
I close the window. Delay it again.
Ilyana will not like it.
I no longer care.
At some point past dusk, when the office quiets and most of the staff has gone, I open my briefcase to retrieve my personal notes.
And there—folded beneath a ledger—is the rough scrap of paper Jamie gave me days ago.
His story.
“The Green Giant.”
I unfold it carefully, the edges soft from his small fingers.
Crayon-sketched at the top—a lopsided orc with too-long arms and a wrench twice his size.
The story reads in crooked, uneven print:
“The Green Giant had strong hands but a kind heart. When the sea got sick and the boardwalk broke, he didn’t fight with fists. He used a wrench and a wish. And he fixed it. And then he smiled.”
No grand speeches.
No profits.
Just a child’s trust in a simple truth.
I stare at the words until they blur.
Slowly, I fold the paper smaller, each crease deliberate.
