Page 79 of Embers of Midnight

“Great,” I say, dry. “Homework.”

That gets me a real smile. It starts at one corner of her mouth and takes the rest of her face with it. Tears hit the back of myeyes like a punch. I swallow them. I’ll cry later where it won’t feel like a trap.

“You can be angry and still take the help,” she says. “Both fit.”

I let out a breath that shudders once. “You watched?” It’s barely a question.

“When we could, from angles that didn’t paint a target on you,” she says. “He sent money that never kept his name on it. He set a ward that shaved off the worst. It wasn’t enough.” Her jaw tightens. “I’m sorry for the harm. I’m not sorry for the choice.”

That is exactly the sentence I didn’t know I needed. It hurts and it steadies me.

“What am I,” I ask before courage fades. The word sits in my mouth like a secret I’m tired of holding.

“Later,” she says. “From someone in the world with you. Not from a ghost in a dress.” Her eyes flick to the horned shape still standing inside her posture like a second backbone. “You know enough, for now. You know you’re not alone inside your skin. That’s the important part.”

A cold roll of air crosses the clearing. The grass whispers. I don’t pretend it’s a sign. I catalog temperature, breath, distance. The bracelet warms against the thread. The weights together feel like a map and a promise.

“You said time is thin,” I remind her. “Say the part I need to carry.”

“Find your father,” she says. Not dramatic. Firm. “He’s closer than you think and farther than you want. He won’t come to you. He believes that keeps you safe. It’s wrong. Go anyway.”

I bristle. “He could have come.”

“He should have,” she says, and the heat under the words isn’t for me. “He’s lived with walls so long he thinks they’re part of the world. Kick one.” She softens. “You are only half free right now.”

The words settle heavy and right. I hate how much sense they make.

“Say it again,” I ask before I can get embarrassed. “The other thing.”

“You were loved before you were born.” She doesn’t blink. “You were wanted. Not by institutions. By me. By him.” She wobbles finally, a small tell at the corner of her mouth. “I didn’t leave because you were too much,” she says. “I left because death took me. He kept you hidden so you could keep breathing. That’s the truth.”

The kid in me who kept a bag packed sits down and shuts up for once. The adult in me doesn’t know what to do with her hands. I press one palm against the bracelet and thread until the feel of them gives me a floor.

“You look nice,” I say, because my mouth is an idiot under pressure. “For a dead woman.”

She laughs, short and real. “I hated this dress when I owned it. It looks better now. Perks of ghost work.”

“Mom,” I blurt, because the word is in my mouth already and refusing it hurts worse. It comes out rough. It comes out true. It burns and heals in the same second.

Her breath catches. Not a sob. A completion. “Always,” she says.

I reach up without thinking. My fingers stop at the same invisible line as hers. Heat passes between us, not skin, not nothing. It’s worse than contact and better because it exists at all. The ache behind my eyes stops being sharp and turns into weight.

The air pressure shifts. My ears pop. She glances toward the trees like she’s listening for footsteps I can’t hear. “Two things more,” she says, quick now. “Do not let anyone sell you control as a cage. And listen to the men who breathe like you do.”

“The men?” I choke on a laugh that isn’t funny. “They have names.”

“They do,” she agrees, amused even now. “Say them out loud often. Let them stick.”

Wind threads through the clearing again. Not a voice, not a choir. Just sound that still manages to make sense in the bones:

Born of fire and bound by fate,

Daughter of war at heaven’s gate,

Clad in flesh, her truth concealed,

The flame shall wake when blood is spilled.