Month Fifty-Two: May
Five years since Killian surrendered.
Isla woke to Sera climbing into her bed at dawn. "Mama. Mama wake up."
"What's wrong, baby?"
"Nothing wrong. Today special. Today is five years since dada went away. Which means only two years until he comes home."
Sera had been tracking it. Counting. Understanding the timeline in her own way.
"That's right. Two more years. Seven hundred and thirty days."
"That's not so many. I can wait seven hundred and thirty days."
"You're very patient."
"I learn from you. You wait every day. So I wait too."
Isla pulled Sera close. Five years old now. Smart. Observant. Understanding more than Isla sometimes wanted her to.
Understanding that dada was in prison. Understanding what that meant. Understanding the counting down.
But not understanding why. Not really. Not yet.
That conversation was coming. Soon. When Sera was old enough to ask the hard questions. To want real answers instead of vague explanations.
