Page 22

JULIE

I ’m not breathing.

Not really.

There’s air in my lungs, sure, but it feels borrowed. Thin. Like the whole world is holding its breath with me, waiting for someone to break the silence that’s sunk over this grove like a shroud.

Torack’s kneeling in the dirt. Lillian’s in his arms. She’s shaking—tiny tremors that rattle her spine against his chest—and he’s holding her like if he lets go, the entire planet might fall apart. And maybe it will. Honestly, maybe it already has.

I stay still, crouched near the roots of the willow. My fingers itch to organize something. A triage. A schedule. A checklist titled Post-Trauma Protocol: When Your Boss and His Daughter Both Look Like They’ve Been Emotionally Steamrolled. I don’t have that checklist, though.

All I have is this moment.

And the pounding in my ears that won’t quit.

“She’s safe,” I whisper, more to myself than anyone else.

Torack doesn’t move. His eyes are locked on his daughter, and he looks… wrecked. Utterly. Like some invisible hand reached in and pulled all the bones out of his backbone.

“I shouldn’t’ve snapped at her,” he mutters.

“She was trying to help,” I say gently.

His jaw clenches. “And I brushed her off. Again.”

Lillian sniffles. “It’s okay, Daddy.”

“No,” he says, fierce and low. “It’s not.”

I scoot closer, slowly, like approaching a spooked animal. Not because I’m scared of him, but because I know exactly how fragile this moment is. One wrong word and he’ll fold back into himself, armor up, act like everything’s fine when it’s very obviously not.

“You know,” I say, “when I was little, I used to make little ‘certificates’ for my dad. You know, like... World’s Okayest Breakfast Cooker or Champion of Bedtime Story Reruns.”

Lillian’s eyes peek out from behind Torack’s chest.

“He hated them,” I admit. “Said they were a waste of paper. I kept making them anyway. Because some part of me hoped that if I handed him enough macaroni and glue, he’d see me. Like, really see me. Not just the good grades and piano recitals and vacuumed carpet.”

Lillian’s lip wobbles.

Torack swallows hard. He hasn’t blinked in ages. “She made me one.”

I nod. “It was a good one, too. You had tusks.”

A breath hitches in his throat. His shoulders shake once. And then again.

“She thought if she saved something, you’d be proud of her,” I say softly.

He finally looks up. His eyes find mine—and gods, there’s so much pain in them, I almost look away.

But I don’t.

Because this is when he needs me most.

“She wanted you to be proud,” I whisper. “And you are. I know you are. But she needs to hear it.”

He lowers his gaze back to his daughter. Brushes hair from her face with a hand that’s rough and gentle all at once.

“Lillian,” he says. Voice raw. Ragged. “You’re the best thing I’ve ever made.”

Her breath hitches.

“I don’t say it enough. Hell, I barely say it at all. But I see you. I see everything you do. You try so hard to be brave, and smart, and kind, and sometimes I forget that you’re still little. That you still need to be told it’s okay to be scared.”

Lillian blinks up at him, eyes huge. “I thought if I helped the owl, maybe you’d remember I’m not a baby you can ignore.”

“You’re not,” he murmurs. “But that doesn’t mean you have to do everything alone.”

He exhales, shaky. “I miss your mom every day. And sometimes, I forget how to be a dad without her. But that’s not your job to fix. It never was.”

Tears stream down her cheeks. She throws her arms around his neck and sobs into his shoulder.

He holds her tighter.

I reach in, wrap my arms around both of them, and feel something inside me break open.

A piece of my own grief, maybe. A memory of the dad I left behind.

And for one long, quiet minute, the three of us stay there in that glade wrapped up in grief and love and something that feels dangerously close to healing.

When Lillian finally pulls back, her eyes are puffy but clearer.

“Can I still give you the badge?” she asks, voice hoarse.

Torack nods solemnly. “You better.”

She reaches into her muddy pocket and pulls out a squashed, glitter-smeared triangle. “It says you’re the Best Orc Dad. Even when you forget snack day.”

He lets out a broken laugh that sounds more like a sob.

I wipe my eyes quickly. “Okay, team. Let’s get you both home.”

On the slow walk back, Lillian clutches my hand and tells me the entire story of the owl’s “very dramatic spiral” and how she tried to make a healing nest with pinecones and lavender and “a napkin I stole from the mess tent.”

“And it burped at me,” she finishes. “Like, a magical burp. So I knew it was still alive.”

“You’re basically a certified healer now,” I tell her.

Torack walks beside us, quiet, but something in his posture has shifted. He’s still tired. Still heavy with everything he’s carrying.

But the guilt’s not crushing him anymore.

He looks at Lillian like he’s seeing her for the first time in weeks.

When we reach the cabin, I go to turn away—but Lillian tugs my hand.

“Will you tuck me in?” she asks.

I glance at Torack.

He gives a nod. “I’ll get her a dry shirt.”

As he disappears inside, Lillian leans close. “Thanks for helping Daddy not be dumb.”

I stifle a laugh. “Anytime, kiddo.”

She hugs me again, quick but tight, and then races inside.

I stay on the porch for a minute, just breathing.

And when Torack comes back out, his eyes find mine.

“Thank you,” he says.

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“I do,” he says. “Because you saw her. You see us. And you didn’t let me walk away from it.”

I shift on my feet. “I wasn’t gonna let her be invisible.”

“And you didn’t.”

His eyes linger on me. “You should go get some sleep.”

I nod. But I don’t move.

Neither does he.

There’s something between us now. Something deeper than flirtation. A thread, woven tight.

When I finally turn to go, he doesn’t stop me.

But he watches until I’m gone.