Luneshale Pass you keep sayin' that i'm nothing like my father

she saw the flash of pain in his gaze and immediately felt awful for it. as he turned, she stood up straight and said, wait.

if he stopped, fiamma would continue. mi dispiace—i am sorry, she told the boy, as maternal instinct won out over sour pettiness. that was rude of me.

he was just a child, after all. the foibles of his mother were not his cross to bear.

i'm fiamma, she introduced herself, even though it might have been said already, when she had translated for soto. come ti chiami? he seemed to have his father's tongue, though maybe only a few words by assimilation.