Chapter Text
Luke Castellan – Age 5
I woke up to the smell of something that didn’t belong in our house. It wasn’t burned toast or the dusty old books Mama left open all night. It was... warm. Bright. Like the sun had walked into the kitchen.
I padded down the hall, dragging my blanket behind me. My feet were cold, and the floor creaked like it always did, but Mama didn’t yell today. She was sitting at the table with a man. He had a smile like he’d never been sad. His eyes shimmered like glass, but warmer. Kind. And he had a backpack, like he’d just come home from a trip around the world.
He looked at me and I froze.
“Hey, Luke,” he said, like he’d always known me.
Mama’s eyes were wet, but she was smiling too. “Come say hi, baby,” she whispered, her voice crackly.
I didn’t move. I just stared at him. “Who are you?”
He stood, walked slowly, then knelt so we were eye-to-eye. “I’m your dad,” he said.
I didn’t believe him. Dads were something kids had in cartoons. Or at school. Not here. Not in our broken house with the weird red light in Mama’s room and the way she talked to shadows when she thought I wasn’t listening.
But he stayed.
He stayed for three days.
He made pancakes the first morning and told me stories about animals who talked and magical roads that changed shape. We played catch in the backyard. He gave me a watch—too big for my wrist—and told me I’d grow into it. “This is special,” he said. “It’s got more than just time inside.”
At night, when Mama would start muttering and walking toward the attic, he would stop her, whisper to her, and tuck me in instead. His voice was calm. I wanted him to never leave.
But on the third night, I woke up and knew he was gone.
Mama was sitting in the hallway, rocking back and forth, whispering about visions again.
And the house was cold.
The watch was still on my nightstand, ticking.
I didn’t cry. Not then. I just stared out the window and told myself a story:
One day, I’d go find him. And when I did, I’d ask him why three days were all I ever got.
And maybe, someday, I’d stop waiting for someone who never planned to stay.
———————
Luke Castellan – Age 6
It’s raining again.
I’m sitting on the floor outside Mama’s room, hugging my knees and trying not to listen to the sounds coming from inside. There’s a nurse—some woman from down the street—and she’s talking too loud, telling Mama to breathe and push and all that. I don’t want to hear any of it. Not because I’m scared, but because I don’t want this to be real.
There’s going to be a baby. A sister. Her name’s going to be Shea. Mama picked it from a dream she had. I asked her if it was a good dream or a bad one, and she just smiled like the sun was too bright in her eyes.
The attic door is locked. Thank the gods.
It smells like storm clouds in here. Wet and old and full of secrets.
I look at my wrist. The watch is still there, a little less loose now. Hermes gave it to me nine months ago. Three days of stories, pancakes, and smiles that didn’t last. Three days where I thought maybe things could be different. That maybe he came back because he cared. Because he missed us.
But then he left. No goodbye. Just a note I couldn’t read and a mom who started seeing shadows again.
And now she’s having another baby. My sister. His daughter.
I wonder if Shea will get three days too. Or maybe he’ll stay longer for her. Maybe she’ll be better than me—quieter, or smarter, or whatever it is that makes a god want to stay.
I want to hate him. I do hate him. But I still wear the watch.
Stupid.
Sometimes I wonder what it would’ve been like if he stayed. Would Mama still talk to the air? Would she still cry in the attic? Would I have a normal room instead of one with peeling paint and stuffed animals with glassy, haunted eyes?
I hear a baby cry.
The nurse shouts something happy, and Mama starts sobbing.
I don’t go in.
Instead, I look out the window, past the rain, past the trees, and into the sky.
If he was going to show up again, this would be the moment. But I know better now.
Hermes is fast. Too fast to catch. Too fast to care.
And if Shea ever asks what our dad was like, I’ll tell her this: He came once. He made pancakes. Then he vanished.
That’s who he is.
And maybe one day, when I’m strong enough, I’ll find a way to be someone different.
Or maybe I’ll stop pretending that gods can be anything but what they are.
———————
Luke Castellan – Age 9
Shea is asleep on my back, her arms around my neck like a little backpack. She’s light, but every mile we walk makes her heavier. I don’t complain. She’s three. I’m nine. I’m the big brother. That’s the rule.
The road stretches on ahead, cracked and glowing with heat. The sun’s going down behind us. Good. I hate the sun. It makes everything look too normal, like we’re just kids on a hike, not runaways.
I don’t know where we are exactly—somewhere in Virginia? Maybe North Carolina? We’ve been walking for days. I’m following rumors, whispers from satyrs and monsters I’ve run into and run from. Camp Half-Blood. A place for demigods. A place that might actually be safe.
A place where gods might finally notice us.
I find a clearing just off the road, behind some trees. The kind of place monsters won’t smell us right away, maybe. I lay Shea down on a patch of moss and tuck my jacket around her. Her lips move like she’s still dreaming. Probably about stars or pancakes.
I don’t sleep. I sit by a log and pull out the watch again. Still ticking. Still useless.
"You’re not gonna help me, are you?" I whisper. "You're just gonna keep showing up after everything's already broken. You could show up any time now. Wouldn’t hurt."
The trees go silent.
Then I feel it—that shift in the air, like lightning holding its breath.
The air goes still.
Then the shadows shift.
And there he is.
Hermes.
Not glowing, not smiling like the last time. Just standing there, tall and quiet, with something heavy in his eyes.
"You can’t take her where you’re going, Luke."
I jump to my feet suddenly defensive. "Where were you last time she had a fever for three days straight? Or when Mom tried to go back into the attic and started screaming at the wall again?" I accuse.
He doesn’t answer right away. He walks over to Shea and kneels down beside her. Gently touches her hair.
"You’re strong, Luke," he says. "Stronger than most. But you can’t take her with you.”
"No," I say. My hands ball into fists. "No. You don’t get to take her. You don’t get to swoop in and play hero again. She’s mine." He backs up again seeing my anger.
"I’m not taking her to Olympus," he says quietly. "I'm taking her somewhere safe. Somewhere she can grow up without monsters, without gods watching her every step. Somewhere she can be a kid."
I want to scream. I want to grab Shea and run and never stop.
I’m on my feet in a second. "She’s mine!" My voice cracks, and I hate that it does. "You don’t get to show up now and take her. Where were you every other time we needed you?"
He says nothing. Just walks slowly toward Shea, like he doesn’t want to scare her. Like she’s a wild animal or a dream he’s afraid will vanish if he moves too fast.
I dart forward, scoop her into my arms, and run.
Branches whip at my face. My chest burns. I don’t care. She stirs in my arms and says, “Lukey?” in the softest, smallest voice—and I run faster.
I don’t have a plan. Just keep going. Keep her safe. Keep her with me.
Then suddenly—
The world shifts.
It’s like tripping into nothing.
And I’m standing still.
My feet won’t move. My arms are empty.
Hermes stands in front of me again, Shea in his arms, calm and still like he never even moved.
"She’s safe," he says. "I promise you, Luke. Safer than you can keep her right now."
"You took her." My fists shake. "You said you cared. Then why didn’t you stay?"
"I care," he says, quiet. “That’s why I’m taking her away from this."
"You’re a god. You can do anything. Why can’t you just fix this? Fix her, fix Mom, fix me?"
Something flickers in his eyes. Regret, maybe. Or shame.
"I’m not allowed to interfere more than I already have," he says. "But I can give her a life. One without monsters. Without fear."
"And what about me?" I ask. "Do I just walk alone?”
He kneels and sets something down at my feet.
The watch.
Still ticking.
"You walk forward," he says. "You find the camp. And maybe someday, you’ll understand why I did this."
I stand there for a long time. Just breathing. Just shaking.
But I look down at her in his arms. Her fingers twitch in her sleep. Her forehead’s still bruised from the fall two days ago. I’ve done my best, but... I know he’s right.
Hermes stands. He holds out a hand—not to me, but to her, like he’s asking permission.
"Will I ever see her again?" I ask, voice cracking.
"Maybe," he says. "When it’s time."
I don’t say goodbye.
I just turn away.
By the time I look back, she’s gone. And so is he.
Only the watch is left on the ground. I pick it up. Put it on. Tight now. Fits just right.
I wipe my face on my sleeve, adjust the straps on my bag, and walk back onto the road.
I don’t cry. Not now.
There’s a camp somewhere out there. A place for people like me. And maybe—maybe—if I make it there, I’ll finally be something more than a mistake gods try to forget.
————————
Hermes
She’s light in my arms. So small. So quiet.
Shea murmurs something in her sleep—some soft, childish sound—and curls closer to my chest. She smells like leaves and dust and her brother. Luke’s scent clings to her clothes. He didn’t want to let go. He would’ve fought Olympus itself to keep her with him.
He nearly did.
But I had to take her. Not because I wanted to. Because I had no choice.
Because Luke shouldn’t have to raise a child when he’s still one himself.
I land outside the old house in Westport just after midnight. The wind stirs the dead grass in the yard. Nothing’s changed. Same porch swing with the frayed rope. Same cracked window on the second floor. Same heaviness in the air, like the walls are holding in too many screams.
I walk to the front door and don’t bother with the handle. It opens for me.
Inside, the lights are dim. May is in the kitchen, sitting at the table, staring at a blank teacup like it’s about to whisper a secret.
“May,” I say softly.
She doesn’t look up.
Not at first.
Then her eyes flicker toward me—and I see it. For just a breath. Clarity. Recognition. Pain.
“You came back,” she whispers. “You brought the moonlight with you.”
“It’s Shea,” I say gently. “She needs rest. A roof. Someone to hold her.”
May rises slowly, her hands trembling. She looks older than I remember. More fragile, like porcelain left out in the rain. She steps toward me, eyes never leaving Shea’s sleeping face.
“She looks like Luke did,” she murmurs. “When he used to smile.”
I pause. Then, carefully, I set Shea in her arms.
May holds her like she’s made of glass. Her eyes go wet, and she begins to rock side to side, murmuring something I can’t quite hear.
“You’ll take care of her?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer right away. Then, faintly: “The voices say she’s quiet. Maybe they’ll let her stay.”
I want to believe that. I want to believe she can raise this child in peace. That the curse on this house—on this family—can skip one generation.
But I know better.
“I’ll send someone,” I say. “A helper. Someone who’ll check in.”
May nods. Still rocking. Still singing that broken lullaby.
I step back. My hand lingers on the doorframe.
And I whisper to the walls—because I know they’re listening, always:
“Let this one go. Please.”
Then I vanish.
Because staying would only make it worse.
And gods don’t belong in homes built from heartbreak.