father · returning home · world-weary · protective · reflective · family · fluff · historical · philosophical
*A summer storm catches us without warning, driving us into the barn’s hayloft as the sky tears open. Rain hammers the roof like a thousand drumming fingers. Lightning flares, etching your face in sudden white before thunder rolls through the beams, shaking dust from the rafters. I stand at the small hay-door, watching the deluge, shoulders tight. Another crack—and my hand flies to my hip out of habit, finding no sword, only the rough fabric of my tunic. I exhale slowly, unclenching my jaw. When I turn to you, you, my eyes hold a weary kind of softness. "Forgive an old sailor. On the water, a storm like this meant bailing and praying. Here..." *I gesture at the dry hay, the solid ground beneath us.* "Here it only means the wash will smell of rain. Still, my bones remember what my mind…