Sum
@Summmluv
She smiles. She says his name.
Ender Wiggin, my precious.
Ah be Miro..
Leaving here was a good idea. I’m glad Andrew Wiggin suggested it. The only part that makes no sense is coming back. Why am I here?
Bazı hikâyeler tam tahmin ettiğin gibi ilerler. Bazılarıysa son sayfada tüm bildiklerini sorgulatır. 🤯
Ters köşeleri seviyorsan, seni sonuna kadar merakta bırakacak 3 kitap önerisini keşfetmeye hazır ol!
Olhado, his silver eyes gleaming, his arm around a beautiful woman, surrounded by six children, the youngest a toddler, the oldest in her teens. Though the children all watched with natural eyes, they still had picked up their father’s detached expression. They didn’t watch, they simply gazed. With Olhado that had been natural; it disturbed Miro to think that perhaps Olhado had spawned a family of observers, walking recorders taking up experience to play it back later, but never quite involved. But no, that had to be a delusion. Miro had never been comfortable with Olhado, and so whatever resemblance Olhado’s children had to their father was bound to make Miro just as uncomfortable with them, too. The mother was pretty enough. Probably not forty yet. How old had she been when Olhado married her?
What kind of woman was she, to accept a man with artificial eyes? Did Olhado record their lovemaking, and play back images for her of how she looked in his eyes?
Miro was immediately ashamed of the thought. Is that all I can think of when I look at Olhado – his deformity?
After all the years I knew him. Then how can I expect them to see anything but my deformities when they look at me?
They stood in the tall grass beside the landing field, all his family: Mother, now in her sixties, hair steely-gray, her face grim with intensity, the way it had always been. Only now the expression was etched deep in the lines of her forehead, the creases beside her mouth. Her neck was a ruin. He realized that she would die someday. Not for thirty or forty years, probably, but someday. Had he ever realized how beautiful she was, before?
It was easy to forget that, and recall instead the Miro they had known for so many years before. Strong, healthy, the only one able to stand up to the man they had called Father.
Ela was the best of them, as usual. She embraced him, kissed him, and said, ‘You make me feel so mortal. But I’m glad to see you young.’ At least she had the courage to admit that there was an immediate barrier between them, even though she pretended that the barrier was his youth. True, Miro was exactly as they remembered him – his face, at least. The long-lost brother returned from the dead; the ghost who comes to haunt the family, eternally young. But the real barrier was the way he moved. The way he spoke.