Kintla Flatlands aero

living with the ghost of his daughter. how it haunted him just to hear it spoken.

yet it was the truth now. their truth. that every patrol he took would no longer involve the diligent tracking of leo, but rather her ghost trailing him. how the den would be one body less and the coldness in that space would seep beyond just bodies.

maxim knew he would not have been able to carry these things alone. that it was by the grace of towhee, jack, and arsenio — even killer! — that he had some semblance of sanity. to keep him grounded and not throw everything away.

but the biggest truth of all was spoken.

that jack had to be a priority now. that they must do things for him and his healing. he wondered if his son might hold a spot where maxim had in that place. if he might lay in the place arsenio had spoken of making. how the thought of his mourning son possibly rooted to the spot was enough to break his heart.

tears pooled in his own eyes. tired and half-closed. there were no words for the abundance of love he had for towhee in these moments. nor any actions, in truth.

so he only reached out in hopes that he might hold her while he attempted to compose himself. knowing that time was limited as is if they wished to keep steady pace with the group.

perhaps, if he squeezed his teary eyes hard enough, he could see that peaceful future on the horizon. future sons and daughters.