Bearclaw Valley a songbird and her cage

Tvar watched her, his expression calm but taut, like a rope stretched near breaking. Her question hung in the air, weighted with pain and uncertainty, and for a moment, he didn’t answer. What could he say? That her grief was misplaced? That her memories lied? It wouldn’t matter—what she saw in him wasn’t something words could undo.

“I don’t know why,” he said finally, his voice quieter now, stripped of the earlier edge. “But I’m not wearing anyone’s skin. I’m just… me.” The words felt hollow, inadequate, but they were the truth as he knew it.

Her attempt at levity fell flat, though he noted the slump in her shoulders, the shift in her tone. She was searching for an explanation, something to make sense of what she was seeing, and he had none to give. “A twin?” he repeated, his tone faintly dry, almost an echo of her attempt to ease the tension. “Not that I know of.”

As she turned away, Tvar remained still, watching her for a moment longer before speaking again. “I’m sorry,” he said simply. “For whatever part of him you still see in me. For whatever he left behind.”