The lake was quiet again.
The snow had long melted into memory. Cold winds had turned soft, and the first bugs of summer flitted lazily across the water's surface. Warm light streamed through the trees, making the mist rise in curling tendrils off the glassy lake. Birds chirped half-asleep in the distance. Rabbits nibbled grass near the garden wall. Somewhere deeper in the woods, a fox yawned.
And Lili stood, as she always did when a new summer came, knee-deep in the water, naked, proud, and thoughtful.
She wasn't exactly sure how old she was—Mother had never told her, not that she could've. All Lili knew was that she was born when everything was cold and dark and the wind had howled all night like some kind of sky beast. So it had been winter. That made this, she figured, her sixth summer. Which meant she was probably six.
She glanced down at her reflection in the still water and grinned. "I'm n-not a baby anymore."
And it was true.
She stood taller now—taller than Terminator, even. A fact she had proven at least four times this week by standing on tiptoe beside him and proudly declaring herself the clear winner. No longer the same size as a big chicken. Now she was their president and queen in full height.
Her body had changed too. Her arms, once soft and twiggy, now had visible lines, tiny little bulges when she flexed. Her stomach—her pride—had four faint but real little abs. She wasn't a bodybuilder yet, but she was something better. A gymnast. Or so she liked to believe.
She struck a pose now, twisting at the waist, fists clenched, elbows bent, face scrunched into a fierce glare. Her biceps popped up in tiny hills beneath her skin.
"Grrr," she growled like Arnold, holding the pose. "I'll be b-b-back."
Then she let it go and giggled, the sound light and soft against the quiet forest. Her hair—long now, golden and thick like Mother said it would be—fell over her shoulders, swaying gently in the breeze. It made her look… almost pretty. Which was strange.
She bent low, dipped a hand into the water, and splashed her face. Her reflection rippled. She didn't look like a man. Not even close. No chest hair. No beard. No heavy jaw. But she did look strong. Strong in a different way.
"I c-could run ten meters," she whispered, lifting her chin. "If a fuel tank w-was about to explode and g-gangsters were shooting at me."
She paused.
"Well… maybe."
It was hard to know. The only thing she'd ever dodged were mosquitoes and angry chickens.
She shifted again, stretching her arms overhead, then flipped herself into a clean backbend. With a push of her legs, she popped into a smooth handstand, legs straight above her head. Then she twisted and flipped into the water with a tiny splash, coming up laughing and gasping.
"Yes!"
She punched the air. "I c-can do flips. I'm l-like Neo. From the M-Matrix!"
She imagined herself dodging bullets in slow motion, back arched, mouth open, coat flapping dramatically behind her. Though realistically, she admitted, she'd probably get shot. Foxes were faster than her. Even Terminator could outrun her.
"But I got my s-spear," she said proudly, turning to where her carved wooden weapon lay propped on a flat rock. "And I c-can spin it. L-like a Jedi."
She walked back through the shallows, water dripping from her legs, and picked up the spear. It was just a long stick, smoothed and polished, sharpened at one end. But in her hands, it felt like power. She twirled it around once, then struck a dramatic stance, feet apart, spear pointed to the sky.
"F-For the Republic!" she shouted.
She grinned, then sighed—and frowned.
Her body still felt strange sometimes. Not bad, just… confusing.
The urge to pee rose again, and she instinctively glanced around for privacy, even though she hadn't seen another human in years. She crouched down at the lake's edge, and that old, familiar ache returned.
Why?
Why, after all this time, didn't she have a dick?
Where were her balls?
She stared at her lower half with a puzzled expression.
"Why can't I p-pee standing up?" she muttered. "Like a real man. L-like those h-homeless guys in the city used to—j-just whip it out and s-spray into the alley."
It wasn't fair. Even when she squatted perfectly and leaned forward like a warrior, it still felt… wrong. Like something was missing. Like a joke she didn't get.
Still crouched, she looked at her hands and turned them over.
Her skin was soft. Ridiculously soft. Like a princess. No matter how many times she did pull-ups on a tree branch or lifted rocks over her head like One Punch Man, her hands stayed smooth. She didn't have calluses. Not a single one.
"Do I even work h-hard?" she wondered aloud. "C-calluses are proof. Proof y-you're real. That you f-fight."
But no. Her skin always healed too quickly. She could skin her knuckles climbing bark and the next day it was like nothing happened. Her knees, elbows, even her feet were all like baby skin. It annoyed her.
"Maybe r-rich people don't get calluses either," she muttered. "Maybe I'm l-like a r-rich forest p-princess. N-naked and peeing into a lake with Mister Frog watching me."
Sure enough, Mister Frog was there—just floating nearby with his bulging eyes half-lidded in quiet judgment.
She narrowed her eyes. "You s-say a word and I'll turn you into boots."
He blinked. She blinked back.
Then she stood again, proud and dripping, stretching her arms wide to the sky.
"I'm still gonna m-make Father proud," she said, her voice firmer now. "He'll s-see my muscles. M-maybe they'll be b-bigger by then."
She imagined it: the two of them, in a real gym, lifting heavy weights, spotting each other on the bench press. Father would shout things like "Come on! You got this, Lili! Push!"
And she would scream back, "Y-you can do it, Hodor!"
She cracked a grin.
That would be nice.
She spun her spear once more, humming Eye of the Tiger, then turned toward the shore.
Time to check on the chickens.
Time to build.
Time to grow.
Even if she wasn't quite sure what she was becoming, she knew she was becoming something.
And that was enough for now.
As Lili climbed the bank of the lake, droplets streaming down her arms and legs, her thoughts lingered on the last thing she'd said—to herself, to the trees, maybe to the stars.
He'll see my muscles. Maybe they'll be bigger by then.
And just like that, her mind shifted, as it often did, to Father—the most real imaginary person in her entire life.
She sat down cross-legged on the warm grass, her still-wet hair sticking to her back, her spear laid carefully across her knees. The water shimmered behind her. The forest whispered softly ahead.
In her mind's eye, Father wasn't just a man. No, by now, he had become something far more. A myth. A legend. A hero forged in every world she'd ever known.
She imagined him now, somewhere out there—sword in one hand, lightsaber in the other—fighting Arthas, the Lich King himself, in a raid atop Icecrown Citadel.
"Th-this is Heroic d-difficulty," she muttered aloud, her voice soft, her tone reverent. "Twenty-five man. And n-no casuals."
She smiled faintly.
In her vision, Father stood at the front of the raid group, his armor glowing with enchantments. Right beside him: her old Gnome Warrior, Happyman, leaping into battle with his oversized axe, spinning like a whirlwind. She pictured the frost-covered platform breaking beneath their feet as they dodged deadly AoEs, Father shouting commands while throwing in cool one-liners like, "Let's make this Lich a little less King."
They beat him, of course. No wipes. Loot dropped. Legendary.
Then the camera of her mind zoomed out, and suddenly they were galloping across the Pelennor Fields, Rohirrim banners flapping in the wind. Father now rode at the head of the charge—shouting, "Ride now! Ride for freedom!" His long cloak whipped behind him as hooves thundered over the plains. Lili imagined herself in the ranks too, no longer the tiny gnome warrior but a fierce child commander, her spear raised high.
Behind them, the White City burned. Screams echoed. But they would save it. Just in time.
And after the gates of Minas Tirith were secured, it was straight to the Millennium Falcon, because time, as all heroes know, is fluid in the minds of the faithful.
Father and Lili stood at the ramp, watching the skyline of the city vanish as they launched into the stars.
Han Solo turned and nodded at them, casually flipping a switch. "You better buckle up, kid."
They soared across galaxies. They rallied clone troopers, led campaigns on dusty desert worlds and icy moons, defeated droid armies wearing Stormtrooper armor for some reason (Lili never really remembered how that worked). It didn't matter. They were the good guys. Father, Lili, and Happyman.
In her favorite part, they strode together into the ruined Jedi Temple. Cloaked and strong. And there, in the quiet echo of the marble halls, they stood at the top of the steps, as Jedi ghosts and star-charts shimmered in the air.
Lili imagined Father raising a hand—no sword, no saber now—just words.
And then he began to preach. Like Jesus on the hill in that story she barely remembered. But instead of "Blessed are the meek," he said things like:
"Gnomes are small, but mighty. They persevere. Like Lili. Like her mother. And like any hero worth knowing."
And the Jedi ghosts nodded solemnly. Yoda made a small "hm" noise of approval.
Lili hugged her knees tighter, smiling at the sky.
Maybe that was why he hadn't come yet. Maybe he was busy doing all of that—fighting the good fight across time and space. Being a hero in every way imaginable.
Maybe he was trying to reach her.
"W-what if he's using F-Facebook?" she muttered, eyes wide with sudden realization. "What if he thinks M-Mother ghosted him?"
Her face twisted with heartbreak and horror. She had never found a phone. Or a laptop. If Mother had one, it was either buried, burned, or lost somewhere in the cottage she now called Mother's Tomb.
He's probably still sending messages, she thought. Typing into some old cracked screen with dirty gloves on, thinking, "Why haven't they answered me?"
The idea was nearly unbearable.
She glanced toward the cottage, flowers blooming in the dappled sun around it. Her voice dropped low. "She w-waited, y-you know."
The words weren't to herself this time. She said them to Father, wherever he was. Maybe he could hear her, through the Force, or through the clouds, or through whatever magic connected two halves of a broken family.
"She was like Arwen," she continued. "S-sitting by the lake. W-waiting for her hero. For the b-boy w-who never came."
She sniffled, but didn't cry. Not really.
"I guess… I g-guess she doesn't have to wait anymore."
She looked back at the lake. It shimmered, quiet and unjudging.
"But I'm still h-here."
She stood slowly, wiping her hands on her rabbit pelt wrap. Her fingers trembled faintly, but her heart felt steadier than it had in days.
"I'll w-wait, okay?" she said toward the sky. "I'll b-be here. And when you c-come home from the g-galactic wars, I'll tell you everything. About her. About the chickens. About the g-garden. I'll tell you… about me."
She lifted her spear again.
"And I'll b-be ready."
With one last long look at the sky, she turned back toward the tree, toward the clay and the ropes and the branches she had yet to weave. She had a treehouse to build, and a kingdom to rule, and maybe—just maybe—a galaxy to welcome home a father who had fought for everything except the one thing that mattered most.
Her.