28. Leah
LEAH
The sky over Glimner is so blue it hurts to look at sometimes—like the gods took too much pride in their palette.
Warm ocean air rolls in through the high-vented shutters, sweet with brine, hibiscus, and that ever-present tang of ionized tech from the floating lights that hover lazily over the settlement’s spires.
I stand barefoot in the kitchen pod, sunlight painting warm shapes across the floor as Clancy hums off-key in the yard.
Our little house is tucked on the quieter edge of the island—far from the showy pulse of the casinos and synth-concerts that make tourists giddy.
We’re close enough to trade when we need to, but not so close that I have to explain why my son can catch a falling pan full of boiling water without flinching.
This world is supposed to be paradise. For us, it’s a hiding place.
I glance out the wide window. Clancy's crouched by the lagoon, poking a stick at the edge of a sand-skater nest, but careful not to hurt anything.
His black curls are plastered to his forehead with sweat, shirt abandoned somewhere between the porch and the fig grove.
A sunshield node pulses faintly above his head, keeping his body temp regulated.
He hates it, says it makes his hair spark, but I made it non-negotiable after the heatstroke scare last cycle.
“Clancy Thorne,” I call, “if that stick ends up in the water again, you're the one swimming in after it.”
He grins back at me—wide, dimpled, devastating—and yells, “You mean again again, or just like, first today?”
I sigh. I can’t stay annoyed with that face. Even when it’s covered in sand and minor destruction.
He’s not like other kids.
Six years old and already reads with more comprehension than half the traders I haggle with. Builds rigged traps from fruit nets and hoverspec parts. He once reprogrammed the house comm to play music every time someone says "banana."
But it’s more than that.
He moves like someone born under pressure—centered, controlled.
And when he doesn’t think I’m watching, he tests himself.
Heat. Speed. Strength. He ran full-tilt into a steel barricade last week and laughed because it only rattled.
He climbed a comms tower two months ago just to see if the signal got better at the top.
And he never bruises. Not once. I know because I check every night. Just in case.
He’s... too much of his father to ignore.
The thought tightens something behind my ribs. I sip from my mug and let the burn anchor me.
Clancy jogs back up the path, dragging a palm frond behind him like a victory banner. He plops down at my feet and tugs the hem of my skirt.
“Mama. Did Papa ever swim?”
The question lands like a stone in my gut.
I crouch, brushing sand from his cheek. “Swim?”
He nods. “Like here. In oceans. With fish. Was he good at it?”
I could lie. Say yes. Say he loved it. But the truth is, I don’t know. Kalev grew up on dry dust and concrete bunkers, not water and coral reefs. I don’t even know if he could swim.
But Clancy’s looking at me like he needs something real.
“I think,” I say slowly, “he would've learned just to keep up with you. And he would’ve hated every second until you laughed.”
Clancy giggles, then leans into my side. “He sounds like a dork.”
I snort. “The biggest.”
He goes quiet after that. Not sad—just thoughtful, like he’s filing away a new puzzle piece.
We don’t talk about Kalev often. Not directly. I’ve built a mythology around him instead. A quiet strength Clancy can imagine without making it ache too much. He’s a man in bedtime stories, a shape in the stars. Not a corpse. Not a ghost.
Just... gone.
“Mama?” Clancy asks softly.
“Mmhmm?”
“Why don’t we go into town more? Everyone else has, like, people.”
I stiffen. My fingers twitch around the cup.
It’s a fair question. Most of the island's kids run in packs, shrieking and skipping and being generally feral. But I’ve kept Clancy close. Home-schooled. Shielded. Maybe too much. But how do you explain to a six-year-old that the world would see him wrong if they ever realized what he was?
“Because we’re different,” I say gently. “Not bad. Just... harder to explain.”
He frowns. “Because of Papa?”
I nod. “Because of what he was. What you are.”
He doesn’t flinch, just absorbs it with that eerie calm of his.
“Okay,” he says, then grins. “But if I had a team, I’d call them The Banana Ninjas.”
I laugh, and just like that, the tension bleeds out of the room.
I won’t let bitterness raise my son. Won’t let what happened to me poison the way I love him. That’s the line I draw every day, every morning I wake up and decide not to disappear into grief.
I make us lunch—fresh fruit, protein bricks, spice noodles—and Clancy tells me about the sand-skater dance he’s invented. He demonstrates it halfway through the meal and nearly flips a table.
Later, while he’s napping under the fan, arms flung wide like he owns the air, I sit on the porch and watch the sun carve golden streaks across the water.
This life is small.
But it’s mine.
I built it from the wreckage.
I mend nets. I grow things. I trade favors instead of credits and make up new names every time someone gets too curious. But I sleep in peace. I love in peace.
And I tell stories about a man who burned so bright, he lit up the spaces inside me I thought were dead.
Kalev never saw this island. Never saw Clancy’s first steps or heard his first word (which was, tragically, “No”). He never helped build the storm cellar or install the irrigation node or patch the porch where Clancy tried to launch a hoverboard.
But I see him everywhere.
In Clancy’s patience.
His fire.
His absolute refusal to give up even when logic says “don’t bother.”
And sometimes, when the night air turns still and the surf quiets, I think I can feel him. Just past the treeline. Just beyond the light.
I don’t know if that’s wishful thinking or some leftover trauma symptom. I don’t care.
What matters is this: I survived.
Not just the war.
Not just the loss.
I survived myself.
And what I made out of that survival is this boy. This life. This bright, impossible child who still believes in heroes and builds traps for imaginary pirates and whispers “goodnight” to the stars.
He is my proof that love remains, even without closure.
Even when the story stops too soon.
And I’ll keep telling that story as long as he needs it.
Because maybe someday—maybe soon—he’ll need to know the truth.
But not today.
Today, he needs to dream.
And I need to let him.