Chapter 49
ALAINA
The dining room glows warm—soft overhead lamplight, the scent of roast and spiced veggies drifting off the plates.
Bill’s house is small but familiar: the same faded wallpaper in the hallway, the creak in the floorboard I tripped over as a kid, now muffled by new rugs.
Tonight, those textures feel like both home and risk.
I sit between Troka and my father. Caelix’s asleep upstairs, tucked into his old crib in the spare room.
My mother passes bowls—mashed sweet root, steamed greens, yeast bread still warm.
The scents are nostalgic: yeast, browned meat, rosemary burning faintly from the hearth.
My fingers twitch with every sound—knife against plate, soft clinks of silver.
My parents are good people. Gentle. Mild. For me, tonight is bigger than dinner. It is permission, acceptance, hope. I glance over at Troka. He tries to smile. He lifts his fork, cuts a slice of bread. He’s being polite. I want to pull his hand.
Dad clears his throat. “Troka, I wanted to show you something.” He gets up—gentle smile, eyes crinkled—invites Troka to follow. I stay in my seat, heart pounding. Mom gives me a little nod. I force my lips to curve.
I watch as Troka steps into Dad’s workshop offshoot, leaving a hush behind. My mother turns to me. “Is he okay?” she murmurs. I nod, breath catching. My throat is dry.
Fork meets plate again. I shove a bite of root in, swallow hard.
In the workshop adjacent, I hear Dad’s voice soft and a tool drawer sliding. Troka’s footsteps. Then Dad’s voice: “Come see my wire collection—so many possibilities. Each strand tells a story.” Another pause, Troka’s reply low.
I glance at the open door, shadows of wood and glass. I want to slip behind him, peek. But I stay. I breathe. The dinner room is now quiet except for shuffling food and polite crickets.
My mother picks at her salad. “It’s nice, having him here,” she says. She forces a smile. My father always protective, but gentle. I know she means well.
I nod. “Yes.” My voice small. I look at my plate, chew.
Then footsteps return. Troka steps back into the dining room, Bill behind him carrying a small box. He places it on the table.
Dad says, “Here—some of my wire bits. I use them for crafting circuits, light fixtures, art. I thought you—”
Troka’s eyes flick from the box to me. I exhale quietly.
Dad lifts the lid. Inside are spools and coils—copper wire, silver filaments, colored insulated coils. Gleaming under the lamp. Wires looped, twisted, delicate, stiff. Each one precise, curated.
Dad begins describing each piece, the kind of wire, where he got it—unused spools from old caravans, strips saved from broken machinery, rare alloys.
He holds up a slender gold-infused braid.
“This one almost got thrown out—salvaged from the old comm tower. It still hums with signal residuals.” He leans in braggingly.
I see Troka’s jaw tighten. His fingers clench on his napkin. I want to stand up and take his hand. I want to tell Dad: you have no idea what each wire means to him, to us—each filament representing circuits, survival, home, connection.
Dad says, “And this—insulated poly-mesh wire from Jaxx colony, rare in these parts. I was saving it for something special.” He glances at Troka. “Maybe you’d like some, if you ever build something of your own.”
Troka nods. He picks up one coil, touches it lightly—electric tension in his fingertips. He tries a small smile. “Thank you. That’s generous.” His voice is smooth, calm. But I feel the tension in the air like static before a storm.
I swallow. I force a laugh: “You have more wire than any shop I’ve ever seen.” My voice quavers.
Dad beams. “I’ve kept it since before you were born, Alaina. I wanted you to have a collection someday.”
Troka places the wire down delicately. “It’s beautiful.” He forces another smile.
In the silence, I feel the weight: I invited him into this ritual, this legacy, not knowing how much pride and expectation rides in these wires. He’s between worlds now—my family, his family, and our new one.
Mom clears her throat. “Shall we have dessert?” She briskly moves plates. The wires get pushed aside gently.
Relief floods me. We shift back to food. Warm pudding, vanilla custard, fruits and cream. The room smells sweeter now—cinnamon, custard, quiet relief. I sip coffee after, bitter and hot.
After dinner, Dad says, “Well, you two should walk the yard—moon’s out. I’ll clean up.”
Troka and I exit onto the veranda. Moonlight silvers the yard. Trees sway. The scent of jasmine lingers. He slips his arm around me. I lean into him.
He doesn’t say anything at first. Then: “I was terrified back there—with the wires.” His voice quiet, vulnerable. “Terrified I’d be judged. That I’d be seen as alien, unworthy.” He breathes. “I want to live among your people. Not just accepted, but belonging.”
I press close. “You do belong. And I didn’t see right away the weight that collection carried for you.” I swallow. “Thank your father—for welcoming you even amid uncertainty.”
He kisses my temple. “I’ll wire from that collection someday, build things for our child.” He smiles. “We’ll make that room, that workshop.”
We lean together in moonlight. I rest my cheek against his chest. He strokes my hair.
Inside, Dad and Mom are packing away dinner, their laughter faint behind the windows. The wire box sits neatly closed on the table.
Tonight wasn’t flawless. But acceptance found its way through wires and nerves. I know tomorrow we will carry forward—all of us.
And: I finally feel at home.