Page 133 of Nocturne

He lets me stew in my thoughts until I decide to talk again. Talking about them is easy. I’m glad that I have someone other than Iyra to discuss them. Ivy lost her parents too young, and as it’s a touchy for us both, we don’t talk about parents a lot.

An automatic smile comes on my face as I think of the things to share with Zagan.

“When I was about eight, my dad decided it was time I learned to ride a bike without training wheels. It wasn’t my idea, by the way—he had this grand vision of me speeding down the street, the wind in my hair, looking like one of those kids in a cerealcommercial. Mom thought it was cute, but she was less... intense about the whole thing.

So, there I was, in the middle of our street, decked out in what can only be described as a fortress of safety gear. Dad had insisted on a helmet, knee pads, elbow pads, and gloves. Oh, and he duct-taped a small pillow to my back ‘just in case.’ I looked like I was ready to survive a meteor strike, not a bike ride.

When it was finally time to start, I could barely balance with all the gear weighing me down. But Dad was right there, clutching the back of my bike seat like his life depended on it. Every time I pedalled, he ran alongside me, muttering instructions: ‘Keep your balance. Don’t look down. Don’t pedal too fast. Or too slow. Just... medium!’

After what felt like an eternity of wobbling, I yelled, ‘Dad, let go!’ But he wouldn’t. He was convinced the second he let go, I’d go flying into a ditch, or worse, into the Ma’s prized hydrangeas.

Mom was watching from the porch, and I could see her rolling her eyes. Finally, she marched over, arms crossed, and said, ‘Jay, she’s not going to learn if you don’t let her try.’

‘She’s not ready!’ he said, his voice cracking a little. ‘What if she falls?’

Mom sighed, walked up behind him, and yanked him away from the bike so fast he stumbled.

‘She’s supposed to fall! That’s how kids learn!’ she said, practically shoving him toward the curb.

And just like that, I was on my own. For about three glorious seconds, I felt unstoppable. I was doing it! I was actually ridinga bike! Then, of course, I turned too sharply and landed in the Ma’s hydrangeas.

But you know what? It didn’t hurt. Well, except for my pride. Dad was by my side in seconds, inspecting me like I’d just been through a car crash, while Mom stood back, smirking, and said, ‘See? She’s fine.’

That was the day I learned two things: one, how to ride a bike, and two, that my dad was the world’s biggest worrier when it came to me. And honestly, I loved that about him.”

I let out a small laugh, shaking my head.

“Papa might have been a scary man to others, but for us, he was always a goofy, overprotective teddy bear. The first and probably the only man who would ever love me for who I am.”

My voice broke at the end. I realised that I would never see him again. It didn’t matter that it had been many years since I lost him, the gaping hole he left hurts so much that I sometimes just wallow in the grief until I know nothing but it.

“He sounds like a good man,”

Zagan’s voice is the softest I’ve ever heard since I met him. I must look how I feel if the grumpiest man I ever know feels the need to speak this softly. Speaking of grumpy, he and Grandpa would have been friends. Or not. Grandpa didn’t take it lightly towards any boy who came near me or Iyra.

Even as a kid, he kept a sharp eye on all our friends who were boys, and I think it aged him a decade when Iyra one day came running to him and announced that she was in love. She wasn’t even six yet. She declared that she was going to marry that boy and not Grandpa.

“One summer, my family and I visited my grandfather’s farm. He was this larger-than-life farmer—complete with the hat, boots, and a gruff voice that could command a herd of cattle or send us kids running if we stepped out of line. But he had one soft spot: his prized black goats. Those goats were practically royalty on the farm. Grandpa treated them better than some people treat their children.

So naturally, when my dad announced he was going to take over grilling duties for the family barbecue, Grandpa looked like someone had just suggested we feed the mutton to the neighbour’s dog.

‘Don’t screw it up, Jay,’ he said, pointing a warning finger at my dad. My dad, of course, puffed up his chest and said, ‘Relax, old man. I know what I’m doing.’

Spoiler alert: He did not.”

I turned my body to face Zagan, completely involved in the story. I didn’t mind or, more likely, didn’t notice when his finger came to touch a rouge strand of hair from my messy updo and push it behind my ear.

“While the steaks sizzled on the grill, Dad wandered off to try his hand at something he thought wasreal farming. He’d overheard Grandpa explaining the art of rice threshing earlier that day—a process where you separate the grain from the stalk—and decided he’d give it a go. Except he didn’t know what he was doing. At all. He grabbed a bundle of harvested rice stalks, stood in the middle of the yard, and started flailing around, trying to whack the grains loose by smacking them against a wooden platform.

Mom, my sister, and I were sitting on the porch, sipping lemonade and trying not to laugh as Dad kept missing the mark—literally. He was whacking his own shin more than the stalks, and every time he did, he’d let out a yelp.

‘It looks easier when they do it in the movies!’ he grumbled, completely oblivious to the smoke now billowing from the grill.

By the time he remembered the meat, it was too late. The mutton was burnt to a crisp—blackened slabs of charcoal that wouldn’t even qualify as jerky. Grandpa came storming out when he smelled the smoke, took one look at the grill, and froze. His eyes narrowed, and he growled, ‘You... burned... the mutton?’

‘I, uh, got distracted,’ Dad stammered, holding up a pair of tongs like a shield. ‘It’s... still edible!’

Grandpa grabbed his trusty cane—not because he needed it, but because it made a very effective pointer—and started chasing Dad around the yard.

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