Page 135 of Zorro

“So strong.”

Inside, the house was warm. Sacred.

The walls bore hand-carved art, gifted by a distant cousin. The floor was lined with rugs woven in deep reds and ochres. Ray’s pipe sat in its place of honor, nestled on the fireplace mantel between two iron feathers.

The Lakota star quilt stretched over the back of the couch, cerulean and white, stitched with prayers.

The scent of stew still lingered, along with burning sage.

He moved through the space like he remembered it in dreams. Every inch meant something. Every beam held the story of his family. Every nail and board and breath of this house had been placed with intention.

Ray’s chair sat empty in the corner, a wool blanket folded neatly over the armrest.

The weight in Bear’s chest expanded, cracked, and realigned.

He didn’t live here. But this place…this was home.

He turned slowly toward the back of the house, toward the porch that overlooked Bear Butte in the distance.

There, as if summoned by memory, Grandfather Ray stood, leaning on his cane, wrapped in a quilt. Watching the sky, like always.

Bear stepped outside. For a moment, nothing moved.

Then Ray smiled. “Welcome home, my grandson.”

Grandfather Ray had changed.

Bear saw it the moment he stepped through the screen door, his shoulders a little more stooped, his face carved deeper with time. Still proud, still watching the world with those fierce hawk eyes, but slower. Softer. A man nearing his last season.

Ray stood and pulled Bear into a hug that was both bone-deep and trembling. “When the Navy called, I told them not to bring you back in a box,” he said gruffly, the words rough against Bear’s temple. “I meant it.”

Bear swallowed hard. He could still hear the heartfelt words, could feel it, from when he was bleeding out on that hotel floor. I can’t lose another grandchild. It had echoed inside him when the pain dulled, and the world tilted. It had kept him tethered.

“I’m okay,” Bear whispered.

“You came home,” Ray said. “That’s enough for now.”

They sat outside after dinner, wrapped in old quilts, mugs of sage tea in their hands. The stars hung thick above them, cold and alive. Ray’s breath fogged the air with each exhale. It smelled like pine and old firewood and the comfort of shared silence.

“She’d love this night,” Ray murmured, eyes still fixed skyward.

Bear didn’t have to ask who. His chest tightened.

“I hate the system that failed her,” he said. “I hate the way no one looked long enough. Fought hard enough. I would burn the whole goddamn world down to get her back.”

Ray nodded slowly. “I know.”

Bear’s hand clenched around the mug. “The worst part is…I don’t even know if she’s alive. Or if I’ll ever find her.”

Ray was quiet a long moment. Then, “The Great Spirits know. That is enough for now.”

“I want more than that.”

“I know,” Ray said again. “So did she.”

Bear looked at his grandfather then, really looked, and it hit him hard. His voice was the same. His eyes still steady. But his bones…they were tired. Like the land was already calling him back.

“I don’t think you have much time left,” Bear said quietly.