Today, I decided it would be the most beautiful day in the world.
I woke up with the sun cracked open in the sky like a golden yolk spilled on silk. It was warm beneath the blanket.
The air smelled like eggs, butter, and Milo's morning grumble echoing from the kitchen.
I like when he grumbles—it means he's here.
— "Up and at 'em, sleepy marmot!"
Always the same line. I smiled into my pillow. My stuffed toy pressed close to my chest.
I slipped into my white dress—the one Milo calls "the dress for days that matter."
I brushed my hair the way he taught me. Even if it tugged a little. I looked into the mirror and whispered :
— "Today, I'll make you proud, Milo."
At breakfast, I ate everything. The chocolate, the eggs—even the burnt edge.
He pretended to grumble, but I know he was happy.
— "What do you want for your gift tomorrow ?" he asked.
— "I want you to let me surprise you," I replied.
He raised an eyebrow. Then smiled. Milo rarely smiles. So when he does, it's like winning a battle with the devil.
I walked to school on my own. Sometimes, I do that. Milo hates it, but I like how it makes me feel older.
Today, I wanted to buy something with my own coins.
I had taken them—just a few—from his button jar. He never noticed.
I bought a bracelet. Cheap plastic, white, with a dove-shaped bead.
— "It's for my dad," I told the shopkeeper.
She asked if he was Milo. She said he was strange, but he loved me deeply. I said,
— "He's the kindest monster I know."
In the afternoon, I drew a theme park.
And I thought, maybe someday, we'll go together. A real one—not just pictures on the TV.
I'd tell him, "Look, there are rides. No ox blood in sight." He'd laugh. Maybe.
Or maybe he'd cry. Milo cries in secret, when he thinks I'm asleep.
He murmurs names I don't know.
I think he's scared of love. Scared it always leaves.
But I stayed.
Even when he screamed.
Even when he punched the wall and it trembled.
Even when he bled from smashing the mirror.
He knelt before me once and said, "I don't deserve to live with you."
And I replied, "Then live for me."
That night, I came home late. I wanted the surprise to be real.
I took a shortcut. An alleyway. Someone said, "Hey, little one." I didn't answer.
Another asked, "Want some candy ?"
I ran.
I slipped.
And then—I woke up in darkness. My wrists were bound. My heart beat too fast. Cold crept in. I screamed. Again and again.
But no one came.
I think I cried. Or maybe not. Maybe I just waited.
I told him to live for me. Now, he has no reason to live unless he chooses to forget.
Then a man came. His cologne was too strong.
He spoke like he was kind. But he wasn't. He said I was "special." Said he'd make me an actress.
I bit him.
He hit me.
And I dreamed I could fly.
Later, I remember… Puck Land. A fake carnival.
People, music too loud, and muffled cries behind the walls.
I think I died there.
Or maybe… a little earlier. When I realized no one would ever hear me.
If I stayed, Milo would have suffered longer.
And yes—he did forget me. But I'm still waiting for my lullaby.
Please… tell him I wasn't afraid at the end.
Tell him I flew away.
With the monster-eyes from my dream.
And his arms catching me.
---
In Duraand, where the city forgot to plan, no birds sang. But the scent of warm bread lingered. And for Milo—that was enough.
In his cramped kitchen, the coffee bubbled in a dented old pot.
He wore a pink apron with a bunny face stitched on it—a old gift from Sophia.
He grumbled every time he wore it, but somehow, he always did.
— "Fucking bunny…"
He muttered, eyes on the eggs sizzling in the pan.
One hand on the spatula. The other brushing an old photo on the fridge.
Sophia, age seven. Gapped smile. Yellow dress too big.
— "Up, marmot!" he shouted toward the bedroom. "Or I'll eat all the pancakes and leave you crumbs !"
A grunt from under the covers answered. Then came the dragging footsteps.
Sophia appeared—hair was wild, plush toy in arm, half-dreaming still.
— "You're too grumpy in the morning, Milo…"
— "You don't scare me nearly enough to make me stop, little princess."
She stuck her tongue out and climbed into her chair, legs swinging.
He poured her hot chocolate into her Puck Land mug—the one she used every morning. He sat across, biting into toast.
— "You know… last night, I dreamed I was flying," she said.
— "Yeah? And what were you doing, Wonder-Sophia?"
— "Flying above the city. And there was a monster down below. But I wasn't scared. He had your eyes."
Milo raised a brow.
— "Charming. And what was that monster with my eyes doing?"
— "He scared off all the bad people. Just looked at them and they shrank real small. Not scary anymore."
He didn't reply. Just looked at her. Heart clenching, then sipped his coffee—too fast. Burned his tongue. Said nothing.
After breakfast, they stepped into the dirty streets of Duraand. Hand in hand.
Sophia dragging her schoolbag. Milo in his long black coat, worn at the elbows.
People greeted them—though few dared to get close. Some knew his past, others only guessed. It didn't matter.
He worked the meat market. Steel, flesh, knives—those things never left him.
But with Sophia, he had learned restraint.
Sometimes she'd visit after school. He'd sneak her strips of dried meat.
She'd grimace, fake disgust—but always ask for more.
— "You think someone can be good, even if they've done bad things ?" she asked once.
He'd hesitated. Then said :
— "We can't go back, little one. But we can choose where we go."
She smiled.
— "Then I want us to go to the fair. Together. Someday."
— "Promise."
That night, he sat alone in his room. Lights off.
On the table—a letter, an old one. Never sent.
Written to no one. Or maybe just to his ghosts.
"I've killed. I've lied. I sold weapons. Sold lives. I was a beast.
But she saw me. Reached out. Called me her dad.
So if I die one day, let it be for her.
Let them say I ended clean."
He placed the letter back in a box. On the lid : a photo. Sophia and Milo, a field of withered roses behind them.
∞
The next morning, he wore the apron again. Cooked eggs, brewed coffee, warmed the chocolate.
— "Up, marmot!" he called. "Last day before the fair!"
No answer.
He entered the room.
Sophia was gone.
Not in bed. Not beneath the covers. Not in the bathroom.
Not anywhere.
Something cracked inside him. An ice-thread through the chest.
He saw the window—left ajar. On the dust of the windows, a tiny footprint.
And on the table : a note in a rushed scrawl.
"Went to get your surprise for tomorrow. Don't worry, Daddy. I love you."
And so, Milo stood still.
And he trusted Sophia.
She would come back.
Wouldn't she ?