Page 19 of The Minotaur's Little Peach
"Grief doesn't follow schedules." Mirath's voice carries the matter-of-fact compassion that makes her such an effective healer. "But she's engaging with the world again. Talking about plans beyond just surviving each day."
The truth of that statement hits me during seemingly ordinary moments. When Soreya mentions needing to plant more somana for next season's harvest. When she asks myopinion on which fabric would be best for Taran's winter clothes. When she starts leaving Taran with me for longer periods while she tends to tasks that require both hands and full attention.
"Can you watch him while I preserve the pears?" she asks one afternoon, already tying her apron around her waist. "They'll spoil if I wait much longer."
The request is casual, matter-of-fact, like asking me to pass the salt. But I recognize the significance. She's trusting me with her son's safety for hours, not minutes. Accepting that I can anticipate his needs and respond appropriately.
Taran and I spend the afternoon exploring the house from his perspective. I carry him from room to room, describing everything we see in the low, steady voice that seems to soothe him. The way afternoon light slants through the bedroom window. The carved details on the chest that holds Korrun's belongings. The view from the kitchen that encompasses the fruit trees and the distant outline of the colosseum.
"Your father planted those trees before you were born," I tell him, settling into the rocking chair Korrun built during the long evenings while Soreya grew round with pregnancy. "He wanted you to have shade to play under, fruit to eat right off the branch."
Taran's eyes track my voice with the kind of focused attention that suggests he's listening, even if he can't understand the words yet. His hand wraps around my finger with the grip that Soreya mentioned—strong and determined, like he's already decided to hold tight to whatever offers stability.
The afternoon stretches peacefully until Taran grows fussy, the kind of restless energy that usually means he needs to eat. I'm preparing to take him to Soreya when she appears in the kitchen doorway, flour dusting her forearms and satisfaction written across her features.
"Perfect timing," she says, reaching for him with hands that smell like cinnamon and pear juice. "I just finished the last batch."
As she settles to nurse him, I notice the change in her posture. Less protective, more relaxed. Like she's beginning to trust that the world won't collapse if she lets her guard down for a few moments.
"The preserves smell incredible," I tell her, settling across the table rather than retreating to give her space. Another small shift in our routine, another indication that the boundaries between us are evolving.
"My mother's recipe," she says, adjusting Taran's position with practiced ease. "She always said the secret was adding just enough honey to complement the fruit without masking its natural flavor."
The mention of her mother is new. In all our conversations, Soreya has rarely shared details about her life before Korrun. I file the information carefully, understanding that these glimpses into her past are gifts offered when she feels safe enough to remember happiness that existed before grief.
"Did she teach you to preserve fruit when you were young?" I ask, keeping my voice neutral to avoid spooking her back into silence.
"Every autumn." Her smile is soft with memory. "I used to complain about the sticky mess, the hours of stirring. But now I understand why she insisted I learn. Some knowledge becomes precious when you least expect it."
Watching her face as she speaks, I see traces of the woman Korrun fell in love with—the one who existed before loss carved new lines around her eyes, before responsibility aged her beyond her years. She's still there, buried beneath layers of grief and exhaustion, but emerging more clearly each day.
When Taran finishes eating, instead of taking him immediately, Soreya lingers at the table. "Would you like to try some preserves?" she asks. "I made extra, and they're still warm."
The offer feels significant beyond the simple sharing of food. Like an invitation into something more personal than our careful coexistence has allowed so far. I accept, and she brings me a small bowl filled with golden preserves that taste like concentrated sunshine.
"This is incredible," I tell her, and mean it. The sweetness balances perfectly with the fruit's natural tartness, creating something that tastes like autumn and home and the kind of comfort that comes from food made with careful attention.
Soreya's pleased laugh bubbles up unexpectedly, bright and genuine in a way that stops my breath. The sound fills the kitchen like light breaking through clouds, transforming the space into something warmer than it was moments before.
"You sound surprised," she says, amusement sparkling in her hazel eyes. "Did you think I was feeding you poorly this whole time?"
"No, I just—" I stop, realizing that her question was teasing, not serious. That she's playing with me in a way that feels almost like friendship. "I've eaten ship rations for years. Everything tastes incredible by comparison."
Another laugh, softer but no less genuine. "Well, when you put it that way, I suppose cardboard would seem like a delicacy."
The easy banter surprises us both. I can see it in the way her expression shifts from amusement to something more cautious, like she's not sure whether this lightness is allowed. But she doesn't retreat, doesn't apologize for finding humor in our conversation.
Instead, she reaches for another spoonful of preserves, savoring the taste with obvious pleasure. "I haven't made thesesince..." She pauses, calculation flickering across her features. "Since before Taran was born. It feels good to create something again."
The admission settles between us with weight I'm beginning to recognize. These moments when Soreya acknowledges progress, when she notices her own healing happening in real time. They're becoming more frequent, these small victories that mark her gradual return to living rather than simply surviving.
I know I'll never replace Korrun—don't want to, wouldn't try. But watching her laugh over shared preserves while our nephew dozes contentedly in her arms, I understand that maybe replacement isn't the point. Maybe what matters is being present for these small moments of healing, offering steady hands when she needs them, and helping her remember that life can still hold sweetness alongside sorrow.
The afternoon light shifts toward evening, painting the kitchen in shades of gold that make everything feel precious and temporary at once. Tomorrow will bring new challenges, new opportunities for this fragile trust between us to grow or break. But for now, this is enough—the taste of pears and honey, the sound of unexpected laughter, and the quiet weight of family choosing to build something new from the pieces of what was lost.
10
DAEGAN
