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Her life changes on a Tuesday.
Ororo never flown so fast in her life. Any wind behind her is guided underneath her arms, and any in front is swept to the back, rocketing her faster and faster, until she cannot feel her face and the ground beneath her is nothing but a blur.
It happens in a tiny town in Oregon. Surrounded by miles and miles of dense tree coverage, nestled at the foot of great mountains. Hidden by clouds, its the kind of town that sees the sun rarely, and an unfamiliar face is even rarer.
It was not the type of place she’d ever expected to find Rogue. But so much has happened in this last year. So much she never could’ve expected, not in her worst nightmares. But that call she had received, letting her know so much more than she could have ever anticipated-
She leaves a crater behind when she lands. She expects so much grace of herself, but right now all she cares about is shortening the length of time it takes her to get exactly where she needs to go.
The hospital is a nondescript brick building, as dreary and plain as the town around it. Though, Ororo notes as she throws the doors open, she is grateful it stands. After what has happened in the last 24 hours, it may be nothing short of a miracle.
Ororo has never taken great care in projecting her power. Has never cared about her image. Intimidation goes against everything she has ever stood for. But then, she’s never needed to see something, some one so badly.
Thunder booms outside as she strides to the front desk.
“I am-”
“We know who you are. Follow me.”
The nurse is a short blond woman, and her reply is as curt as her frown is deep.
Ororo bites her tongue. To know mutant prejudice is to know true foolishness. But she has come this far, and causing a scene now would be worse than senseless.
She follows the nurse down hallway after hallway, the space between each door seems longer than the last. The click of her shoes echoes down the long hall, and it is the enduring force of grace that keeps Ororo from bolting down its length, screaming her friend's name.
It is only at the end of the hall that the nurse pauses. She clicks her teeth, rolls her eyes, and turns the handle. She pushes the door open and steps inside. Ororo bolts in after her and sees-
A black turtleneck under a hospital gown. Red hair long and frizzy with day old sweat, green eyes red from exhaustion and tears. Long green, silk gloves wrapped around a tiny purple bundle.
Rogue looks as all brand new mothers do, curled up in the hospital bed. Exhausted. Bedraggled. And as Logan would put it, “scared shitless”.
And she is here.
The nurse removes herself, closes the door behind her. The rain drips outside. Rogue does not meet her gaze, stroking up and down the length of the blanket with the palm of a hand.
What to say? What could she say?
But she speaks.
“I am your emergency contact?”
Rogue does not startle. She doesn’t even turn her eyes up towards Ororo, too entranced with the little swaddled bundle lying on her chest. A fact so endearing and so distressing, that her friend will not look her in the eyes.
Her friend, her best friend on earth now that Remy is dead, looks so painfully thin. Her skin is pale, bags under her eyes dark and purple. And she is quiet. This can’t be the same Rogue she knows, is it? Who punches through tanks as if they were mere paper imitations, who jokes and laughs so loudly. Freely. Wildly.
Rogue has always loomed large. Whether is was her strength in battle or her booming laugh. But she’s never looked quite so small in Ororo’s eyes.
But she opens her mouth. And that voice is all hers.
“Hey, gal.” Her voice drips with twang and fatigue, and she pulls reddened green eyes to meet Ororo’s blue. “Figured you’d pick me cute shoes for a funeral. And keep Jubes from rummagin through my stuff.”
Ororo knows sparks. When she can feel the wind, the clouds call to her, she knows sparks of lightning as well as she knows the thrumming of thunder in her veins. But this, this tightening in her chest, is one of hope.
Oh, yes. There she is.
Rogue pats the bed in front of her. It is more than enough of an invitation for Ororo, who’s been waiting too long to pull her friend into a hug.
Ororo thanks her luck, that she’d been dressed in a long turtleneck when receiving the call. She’d had no time to change. A brief, rushed summary to the war room was all she’d allotted time for before rushing to the skies.
Rogue does not tell her to be careful, and perhaps that is the most distressing part of this scene. Her friend could act as bold and boisterous as she wanted, but there was always a level of cautious heed in every one of her movements. Any embrace could never be spontaneous, could never be anything but well-planned and diligently calculated.
So much to catch up on. So much to explain. So much to know.
“Oh, sister.” Ororo squeezes her tighter. “Where have you been?”
So many lost on Genosha. And if it hadn’t been for Kurt and his eyes, perhaps Rogue would’ve been counted among them. She’d disappeared so easily in the aftermath. Slipping away like Genosha had, the dream of a brighter tomorrow. She’d been there one morning and gone the next, nowhere to be found.
In some ways, Ororo could understand that. They’d all found different ways to grieve. She’d held Jubilee as she cried and cried, until she could cry no more. Scott threw himself into organizing the memorial, spending days on end locked in his office. He looked more spent, more exhausted, more crushed than Ororo has ever seen him, even with a near decade of team membership under their belts. Hank had told each team member individually that his door was always open for a chat, but he himself would be seeing a professional grief counselor. So far Kurt and Morph have both taken him up on the offer.
Logan still takes to the back porch on Saturday nights, a deck of cards and a case of beers in hand. Jean will join him occasionally, when the nights are too warm and the air a bit too sweet. He does not deal the cards and she does not drink. They do not speak.
As for herself-
Well. No one mentioned how uncharacteristic it was to have hurricanes and tornadoes in New York, let alone several within just a few days. For that discretion, she is grateful.
Rogue murmurs into her shoulder. “I had a baby.”
“I know.”
“Remy’s dead.”
Storm kisses her hair, hopes it can do something to assuage the burden of grief. The pain of it written so clearly on her soul. She knows it doesn’t. “I know.”
They’d postponed his funeral for as long as they could, in the hopes that she would make her appearance. To publicize it had been contentious within the team. They’d all known how much he would’ve hated that recognition, that spotlight on his name. But in the wake of losing one beloved team member, they’d been desperate to avoid losing another. To bury him without her, to deny her that right to closure was an unfathomable choice. To give her the option to attend was all they could do.
But they’d laid him to rest all the same. And among the thousands who came to pay their respects to a hero, Rogue was nowhere to be found.
For months they’d made due with secondhand reports. In Argentina, a red and white headed woman pilfering bread and playing cards with the grace of a seasoned thief. A flying streak in the skies above the Atlantic ocean. They’d tracked down every one dutifully, but had never caught her trail or even a hint of where she was going. What she was doing. If she was safe .
There had been no mention of her condition. Ororo likes to think it would’ve made a difference in searching for her, but knows it wouldn't have. There was no forcing Rogue back down to earth. She would come home when she was ready, or not at all. It was what she’s told herself, on the nights when worry made the room feel as suffocating as a coffin.
Perhaps then it wouldn’t hurt so bad to know her sister had done this alone.
The child between them squeaks and gurgles, and Ororo pulls back a little. Just a bit, just enough, and Ororo is fairly sure she will never go too far again. Perhaps that is what Rogue thinks as well, for the way she shuffles to the side of the bed. It’s almost normal, the way Rogue would slip to one end of the couch, an invitation she was never able to vocalize. A request for closeness in quiet moments, the opportunity for risk being surpassed by the need for comfort. But then, this was not who she was usually hoping for. Ororo takes it anyway, and sits down on the edge of the bed beside her.
“Ah don’t know how it happened. I mean, I know how it happened. But I never thought it woulda stuck. I mean…” She flips a wrist to gesture around the room, voice catching. “How did this happen?”
A question Ororo has been asking herself for all of these long months. She still cannot find the answer. It is not written in the winds, or the earth, or the sea. These are the things she knows, the undeniable facts of her life.
“Fate is an odd thing,” She decides on saying, and rubs a hand across Rogues shoulders. “He is often cruel, and wraps his sincerity in grief. But he is always intentional.”
Rogue sniffles. “Ahm gonna stomp him in his fuckin balls.”
“I am afraid you will need to draw a number first.”
It should have made Rogue laugh. It should have made Remy laugh. It should be the kind of statement Ororo would scold either of them for, but smile all the same. It isn’t.
Rogue slips a hand in the blanket, cradles her daughters face. There is still a note of disbelief in her face, as if she is still expecting this to be a dream to wake up from.
“I was still in Genosha when they told me ah was gonna have her. They were patchin me up in a tent after they took Remy from me. They were runnin some tests and they said…” She pauses, then inhales sharply. “ Lord , ‘Ro, I thought it was gonna fuckin kill me. I was drowning and drowning and as soon as they told me it was like the dam burst. I went-” There is no humor in her laugh, only the remnants of horror, a despair that cannot be put name to. “I went kinda crazy, gal.”
Storm does not know what that means. She is not sure she wants to.
“Don’t remember much of anything, after that. Think I ended up stayin in a nunnery for a couple weeks, made me think about Kurt. But they were nice. Next thing I knew I was in a lil coal minin’ town.” Rogue shakes her head. “They weren’t so nice. After that, felt like every time I looked up I couldn’t remember how I got there. And my belly jus’ kept gettin bigger.”
Storm has known terror. She has seen injury. She has seen sickness and death beyond imagining. And now she has seen nations fall by the force of hatred, seen her loved ones ripped from life and from all who hold them so dear.
But the thought of Rogue alone, paralyzed with grief. Dissociative in a fugue state and continents away from those she loves, is a whole new kind of dread.
Rogue glances down at the child. “Y’think she’s sleepin good? My arms are killin me.”
Numbly, Ororo nods. Rogue leans to her side and winces, but drags the plastic, hospital issue bassinet to the side of the bed. Ororo frowns. She gladly would have helped if she’d been asked. But then, that was Rogue. She ached to be independent just as much as she’d longed to be wanted.
She’s never seen Rogue be quite so gentle with anything, when she places the child down. She sags back against the bed, eyes trained on the child. The longest they’ve ever been apart, Ororo is sure. And neither seems willing to part.
The child flinches in her blanket, scrunches her face tight, and-
Rogue moves fast, faster than Ororo would’ve thought possible for a woman with so many stitches. She scoops the child out of her bassinet quickly, cuddles her to her chest. She seems so practiced already, so in tune to what her child needs. The child is not yet a day old, but Rogue acts as if she has known it for years.
“I am sorry you went through that.” Ororo murmurs. “And I am sorry you were alone.”
“Never thought I’d get this far. Didn’t think I even wanted to. I thought, what if I had her and I just…” Rogue tucks the blanket tighter around the child, tightly swaddles the newborn. “But I see him in her. Ain’t just the face, ah think. I look and her and I think, “there's a piece of him. My man. There’s somethin’ of him that's still here”. And then I wonder how the hell I ever thought about not bein around for her.”
“Oh, Rogue…” Another apology dries up on her tongue. It doesn’t feel enough. It doesn’t assuage the guilt, and it does not pierce the grief.
“Biggest surprise of my life, that's for damn sure.” Rogue pats the baby’s back, nestles her secure against her sternum. “But ah don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything more in my life.”
Gods above, how badly had Remy wanted this? The way he’d smiled at every child who crossed his path, the blind eagerness with which he’d approached every young charge, it all made his demons so clear. He’d ached to be needed, and he’d ached to be loved as much as he’d ached to do the loving. He’d wanted to be something he never had. And he wanted to be good at it.
She hopes he is smiling down on them. And she hopes he can forgive her for taking his place at this moment he’d dreamed of.
Rogue smiles down, placing a palm at the child's back. “She don’t look a thing like me. I look at her and all I see is Remy. Poor thing, ain’t good for a little girl to be told she looks just like her daddy.”
She shifts to her side, baby still held tight to her chest. But Ororo can see the slope of her nose, the shape of her lips. The tuft of thin red hair barely covering her still-pink skin. The irises of her eyes are the grey-blue of all newborns. But the sclera, her pupil are a sea of inky black. When her color comes in, be they red or green, it will not matter.
Oh, how Ororo has missed those eyes!
“She is beautiful, Rogue.” Ororo murmurs in adoration. “Now, you will tell me what you need. Anything, save stars above, and it is yours.”
Rogue thinks for a moment, then gestures to a bedside table placed steps away.
“Water. Think I cried it all outta me when they put her in my arms. Then they put it outta my reach knowin there aint no way in fresh hell I’m gettin outta this bed for a while.” Rogue huffs. “Sadistic bastards.”
Ororo raises an eyebrow. There is most certainly a talk to be had for language around the child, but it is one that can wait. Ororo rises from the bed and retrieves the sup, passes it to a grateful Rogue.
She raises the cup to her lips. The neck of her shirt slips down-
Exposing a blinking collar.
She sucks a sharp breath in through her teeth. Of course Rogue wouldn’t get anywhere near her, let alone her child, without one. No matter how restrictive, no matter how demeaning, no matter how dangerous-
Rogue cringes.
“Don’t- Don’t look at me like that, ‘Ro. I didn’t have a choice, alright? They wouldn’t take me in unless Ah was wearing one.“ Her jaw clenches. “And I would’ve worn one anyway. I ain’t riskin hurtin her for my pride.”
Ororo swallows down the lecture in her throat. It’s one they’ve all heard so many times. Not safe for long term use. An affront to mutantkind. The very symbol of degradation. And yet, the only way her friend can cuddle her baby daughter close.
“That's how I got pregnant anyway, wearing one of them collars. Ah felt so awful afterwards, had a headache to boot. But it was right after that mission where that kid died. Scott and Jean were still in tatters, felt like I couldn’t breathe in or outside the mansion. Me ‘n Remy we just… we both felt like we needed a little comfort.”
It’s more than she ever needed to know about either of her friends. But she remembers that awful day so clearly. The wails of the child's mother, seeing her hunched over her child's corpse. They’d all taken it so poorly, and it had been the first event to shake them all in their faith of carrying on Xaviers mission.
She could never fault them for seeking solace, companionship, love where they could. And Rogue is restrained by something far more powerful than a collar, it seems.
“I told myself ah could never make a habit of it. Couldn’t never let it happen again. But now?” Rogue kisses the top of the baby's forehead, and it’s written so cleanly on her face just how much she savors the action. “I’ll wear a collar for the rest of my life if it means ah get to hold her.”
“No, Rogue. Listen to me.” She slides closer to Rogue, places her hands on her shoulders. “Come home. Hank nearly flew to his lab when he received the news. We want to find a way to make this work. We will find a way for you to touch your child. By the time I’d left Hank was already dreaming up new inventions and experiments. All we need is for you to be there.”
Ororo can hear the crashing of waves when she is nowhere near the sea, and the whistle of wind through trees when she is continents away. It takes far less to know what it means when Rogue swallows, rocks the child a little more, and averts her eyes.
“Kinda figured y’all would’ve moved on by now. Gone on without me and Remy… ‘cept I guess I ain’t figured that out either.” Rogue frowns. “Besides. There’s a whole lotta rooms in that house, but ain’t much space for a baby.”
“Oh, you would be surprised. I’ve never seen such elation in those halls before I took flight. I even caught Logan with a smile, though he denied it fervently when asked.” She responds, then adds drily, “And Jubilee was quite ecstatic to learn she is no longer the youngest in the house.”
Rogue laughs. It isn’t the same as it once was. It isn’t loud or boisterous, but it feels like a start. “Thatta gal. Got her priorities in order.”
It makes Ororo want to grin, but restraint is a virtue, and one Rogue knows well to respect.
“We have missed you, Rogue. I have missed you. Please, you need not force yourself to go through this alone.”
Whatever mirth was present in Rogues face drains.
“You’re right. She don’t deserve that. But I do.“
It catches Ororo off guard. She had expected those words, feared them from the day it became clear that Rogue wasn’t coming back. But the conviction in Rogues tone is a guilty one, as though she has been sentenced and judged by something Ororo hopes to never understand.
“That is not true!” Ororo sinks down to the bed, and despairs at the way Rogue shrinks away. “Nothing that has happened to you has been your fault. And struggling on your own could never be a suitable punishment. Especially one so self-imposed.”
“Except that I do. I do deserve it.” Her voice is flat, that southern charm gone with her heart. “I killed her daddy.”
“Rogue-”
“Storm. You don't understand. He-” Rogues eyes well up with tears. “He wasn’t even supposed to be there! Remy was in Genosha because of me! Because he was worried and I was pulling away and…” Her chest heaves, shoulders shaking. “And I was gonna have a baby. He was gonna have a baby and he didn’t even know .”
Tears slip down Rogues face. Ororo moves to wipe them away, but Rogue flinches.
“Ah loved him and I was so bleedin stupid. Oh god, I threw him away like he was gutter trash and…” Rogue heaves for breath. “ And I loved him and he didn’t know! ”
Rogue doubles over, back arching as she curls over the child, clutches her tight against her chest.
“I can’t go back. I can’t stand the way y’all are gonna look at me and know he ain’t here because of me. Because of my stupid, selfish-” Rogue inhales sharply. Digs one hand into her hair and sobs. “God, what am ah gonna say to her ?”
Horror curls in Ororo’s chest.
It was plain to most what Gambit had wanted. It was the gambler's flaw, in that desire had shown clearly in his eyes when he looked at Rogue. It would be easy to assume his desires were salacious, that he’d wanted little more than sin. But Ororo knew him better. He’d wanted her wit, her humor, her love. More than anything he’d wanted to see her smile and laugh, just for him.
And he would never have wanted this.
But to speak from the heart is a dangerous game. Even more so a dead man’s.
Gambit, Remy. Please, if you can hear me, lend me your silver tongue. You could have imagined no greater purpose.
“I… I will not tell you he is in a better place. It is a sentiment he would never have agreed with, knowing he would desire nothing more than to be at your side.” Ororo braces herself against her friend, at the heartbroken sob that leaves Rogues chest. “But he rests easily, knowing you are safe. And I do believe he has found peace now. To be content with that is a struggle, and moving forward even more so. It is a challenge, the choice that must be made every day. But we will help you, Rogue. I swear on my life.”
If she could swear on anything greater, she would. Anything within her grasp, be it every drop of moisture in the clouds or force of the wind, she would swear by it. But life is the thing she holds every day in her hands. And she would forfeit it in an instant if it meant she could comfort her friend.
“And as for the child,” She affirms, her hand joining Rogues at the infants back, supporting the tiny, precious weight. “You will tell her that he loved you, and he would have loved you both. But that Gambit was always making his own decisions, and that nothing in the world could’ve stopped him from being here, save death itself. Especially if it meant the safety of his child.”
She pauses, unsure. Could she put into words the pain they’d felt at seeing two empty chairs at the table? The laughter that felt so hollow without their voices? The way they’d reconfigured every inch of their lives around the aching, gaping hole that only death could leave behind.?
Rogue turns her face towards Ororo, her quiet sobs still racking her chest. She is here again. Back in her arms. Safe. And for whatever it takes, Ororo will find the words to keep it that way. If she can honor his memory, she can honor a life. She can love a fresh new one, protect and cherish it.
“And we, the X-Men, will look upon you as we always have. As a friend. A teammate. A sister, whom we love. A member of our family whom we cherish and support in her times of need. And I do believe you have needed us as much as we have needed you, these past months.”
She wraps an arm around Rogues shoulders, and holds her tight. It is muscle memory, the remnant of unfortunately negated anxiety that has her shying away, and Storm hates having to break it. But Rogue has done so much running. It is time now for her to listen.
“We have mourned Gambit. We have mourned that you could not let yourself be there with us. We have feared for your safety and believed that you would find your way back to us.” Ororo lets the smallest smile come over her face. She leans down and presses her forehead against Rogues. ”And we have loved you from every inch we have been apart.”
The dam breaks. Fresh tears spill down Rogues cheeks, and a sob wrenches itself free from her chest. Rogue slaps a hand over her mouth to muffle it, shoulder shaking with the force of containing her sobs. Ororo is gentle but firm, and pulls the hand away before wrapping her arms around Rogues shoulders.
“Let it out, dearest.”
Rogue wails in her arms, and the force of her anguish nearly leaves Ororo breathless. When she thought she’d found the last space in her heart untorn, the pain in her chest at Rogues bereaved sobbing is hard enough to crack. It cannot be the same as what Rogue feels, to lose a future twice. To turn away from it, to turn back and find it was already gone. What pain she feels is not one Ororo envies, and it is not one she takes lightly. But it is one she can hold, and one she can do her best to meet.
This is sorrow, truly. And it is regret. It is the desire to fix a past which cannot be changed, and a fear at going on without a piece of the peace they’d felt together. It is devotion, and it is pain, and it is mixed so wholly that she could not separate the two if she tried. But then, what else could love be?
All she can do is hug Rogue tighter, and weather the storm together.
She knows not how long it takes for Rogue to shed the last of her tears. In some ways, Ororo worries she never will. But she quiets eventually, face pressed against Ororos shoulder as her chest heaves. Ororo strokes her back soothingly, but does not speak. The choice remains on Rogues shoulders, and Ororo is content to wait.
The rain still falls outside, the child still sleeping against Rogues chest.
No one comes to check on them. Ororo knows no one will. If they disappeared from this room with no trace, they’d be little more than a note in a patient record already sparse.
Rogue winces and shifts her weight away from Ororo. It would be devastating, if Rogue didn’t go too far before leaning back, rearranging her legs in a more comfortable position. It had been a long time, Ororo notes, since Rogue has let herself be held. And even longer than she has been free of the worry associated.
“Ah wish I’d told you.” Rogue murmurs finally. “I wish I’d been able to. Maybe if I had, it wouldnta come off as such a shock. They’d have had more time to get used to it. To love her.”
“You know our family well. It will not matter.” Storm brushes a fingertip down the girls tiny cheek, and smiles down in adoration. “They have loved her from the moment they knew she existed.”
Rogue chuckles, but it rings hollow. “Sounds like Jean when she found out about them ‘mom jeans’.”
Deflection. Something Rogue excels so well in. And for once, Ororo can’t find it in herself to let her. She places her hands in Rogues and stares her in her eyes.
“Please, Rogue. Come home.”
On loving and losing, Storm has done so much.
She can weather the elements as easily as a mountain withstands an ocean breeze. She has weathered storms strong enough to level cities, and she has loved hard enough to tear them down herself.
She cannot lose this.
Rogues lip quivers.
“Okay.”
Ororo’s heart leaps. “Yes?”
“Fine. But y’ gotta help me pick a name first.”
She looks at her in surprise. “Really? You would allow my input on your daughters name?”
“Remy ain’t here to do it. And I am-” Rogue blinks hard, “Really damn tired, right now. And he’d want you to, if he was here. I do.”
“I… I will think upon it. But for now you must rest.”
Rogue shifts, discomfort flitting across her face. “You uh… y’wanna hold her for me? I’m pretty goddamn sore right now. An’ she don’t much like to be put down.”
She is no stranger to infants. She had nursed Mjnari all those many years ago, memories she still holds close to her heart. Her hand is well practiced in scooping up the childs tiny head, sliding her arm underneath her body to lift the tiny girl to her arms.
She can see much more of Rogue in the child's face, when she nestles her in the crook of her arm. The thin, wispy hair on the top of the child's head is a much darker shade of red than Remy’s ever was.
The child blinks sleepy, unseeing black eyes at her. Ororo feels her well up with tears.
“Hello, my darling.” She coos. “Your mother and I will have to talk tomorrow, about what name you shall call me by. But know for now that I am someone who loves you so very, very much.”
Rogue turns to her side to watch, drowsily curls an arm around a pillow and gazes at them. “Y’be a good auntie, ‘Ro.”
“And you shall be the most excellent mother. Now sleep .”
Ororo will count it as the one singular time Rogue has listened to anyone but herself when Rogues eyes slip shut. It takes no more than a few minutes before her breathing evens out, the steady rise and fall of her chest telling Ororo her dear friend has started her journey to rest.
The child less so. She squirms in unfamiliar arms, fighting the return sleep. Ororo rocks her gently from the bed, but thinks better of it. She rises, the child clutched protectively in her arms. She takes one step, and then another. The motion child settles the child down, but curious black eyes try hard to focus on the brand new world around her. A world of wonders. A world of poisoned ideas. A world of beauty. And a world that took away someone who would’ve loved her with every inch of his battered heart.
The rain pounds on the window. Storm pays it no mind.
Ororo has never felt much like an impostor before. It should be Remy in this room, cradling his child and his lover. He should be brimming with pride, with love, with the belonging he never seemed to find in life. He should be experiencing the preciousness of new life, brimming with the happy possibilities of the future.
It should be. It isn’t.
Gambit may have known the odds. But Storm knew the winds. Changes blew into her life and back out again with no warning to their permanence, leaving behind a chill that she could never warm.
She had seen it in him, the first day they’d met. She’d been depowered then, and it would’ve been so easy for him to take advantage of that weakness. But he hadn’t. He’d outstretched a hand instead, called her by that nickname she hates and has missed every day.
And she had known then, from the very depths of her soul, that Remy LeBeau was someone who would mean everything to her. There would be others after him, people who she’d gladly give her life for without a second thought. But Remy was the first person who could crack her walls down with a classless French joke, a fresh beignet on the roughest days, or just a shoulder to lean on when she could no longer stand.
To lose him was to lose a piece of her world. She’s wondered if a day will ever come when she does not think of the loss, when she can think of playing cards as playing cards or trench coats as heavy outerwear. When they are themselves, and not extensions of the man she’s missed so deeply.
She would hold him forever in her heart. Already she’d worn down so many of their memories as if polished stones. She wants to remember him gleaming. Smirking and smiling and radiantly alive. A memory was a piece of him that she could always keep, a piece of him that she would treasure for the rest of her life.
But to hold another here in her arms, hold it safe against the world which stole him away from those who loved him so much-
She presses a kiss to her nieces forehead.
“I think ‘Auntie Stormy’ might do well, child.”