Sana’s “Volcano of the Future” had once been a proud cone of papier-mâché and paint. Now it looked like something a raccoon had mugged in an alley.
“We can save it,” Sana declared, solemn as a tiny judge.
Arin held a strip of tape between his teeth, squinting at the crooked cardboard base. “We can save anything,” he said, which was only half a promise and half a prayer.
He’d been saying versions of that sentence since the night his wife, Laila, didn’t come home from the hospital. Since the quiet after the funeral. Since he’d learned that grief doesn’t walk away, it just changes outfits and shows up in different rooms.
The auto shop had been brutal this week. Extra shifts, a transmission rebuild that fought him like it had personal grudges, a customer who insisted the engine noise was “a vibe.” Then the school meeting about Sana’s slipping math grade, because grief can make even numbers feel slippery. Then late-night dishwashing in his own kitchen because he couldn’t afford the luxury of waking up to dirty plates.
His exhaustion had started to look permanent, like an old oil stain.
