He sketches with charcoal, his house born of dust and moonlight. A porch, wide enough to dance on, he says. Windows that swallow the sun and spit it back as gold. A chimney that sings with every fire. He calls it a dream, but his hand moves with the surety of a builder, each line precise, each shadow deliberate. I watch him, a silent observer, as the house takes shape on the page.
“It’s beautiful, Henry,” I say, the words feeling inadequate, like trying to capture the desert wind in a jar. The drawing is more than just lines on paper; it’s a blueprint of his soul, a testament to his longing for permanence in a world that offers none. A home, a hearth, a haven from the storm. All things I can never truly understand, let alone offer.
He looks up, his eyes bright with a hope that makes my chest ache. “You really think so? I been thinkin’ about every little detail. The way the light falls in the mornin’, the sound of the rain on the roof… it’s all there, in my head.”
I trace the lines of the porch with my finger, the charcoal smudging slightly under my touch. “It’s more than just a house, Henry. It’s… a sanctuary.” A place to belong. A place to be safe. A place to be loved.
He smiles, a shy, hesitant curve of his lips. “Yeah. That’s what I want it to be. A place where folks can come and feel like they’re home. No matter where they’re from, or what they’ve done.”
His words hang in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. He’s talking about more than just a physical structure; he’s talking about acceptance, forgiveness, and the possibility of redemption. Things I, a godling, know little about.
“And you, Tak? What do you think of it? Would you… would you ever want to live there?” His voice is barely a whisper, his gaze fixed on the drawing, as if afraid to meet my eyes.
The question hangs between us, a fragile thread stretched taut across the space that separates my world from his. I want to say yes, to tell him that I can imagine nothing more beautiful than sharing this dream with him. But the words catch in my throat, choked by the weight of my own truth.
I am not meant for such things. I am a wanderer, an observer, a fleeting shadow in the tapestry of mortal lives. To anchor myself to a place, to a person, is to defy the very essence of my being. And yet… the thought of turning away from him, of denying him this simple dream, feels like a betrayal of something sacred.
So I offer a compromise, a half-truth wrapped in careful words. “It’s a beautiful dream, Henry. A truly beautiful dream. I hope you get to build it someday.”
My words are a deflection, a gentle evasion of the question that burns in his eyes. I admire the sketch, the details of the house, the promise of warmth and belonging it represents. But I remain distant, unwilling to commit, unwilling to shatter the fragile illusion that binds us together.
He nods slowly, his smile fading slightly, replaced by a flicker of something I can’t quite decipher. Disappointment? Understanding? Resignation?
He carefully rolls up the drawing and tucks it away, the dream house disappearing as quickly as it appeared. The silence returns, heavier now, laced with unspoken words and unfulfilled desires. I have admired his dream, but I have not embraced it. I have offered praise, but not promise. And in that small act of withholding, I have begun to build the walls that will eventually separate us forever.
