The Burden That Lingers

It was late. The fire had burned down to embers, red-orange sparks flickering like fireflies beneath the cracked stone ring. The village slept, wrapped in the cold hush of the marsh night. Only the croak of frogs and distant rustle of water reeds disturbed the stillness.

Levi sat alone at first, poking the coals with a stick. But then Mae came, carrying a small flask of the weaker swampberry brew. She poured two small wooden cups without asking and handed him one.

He took it, nodding thanks. He hadn't said much since returning from Greycrann. The bandage across his right eye still pulsed with a dull pain, and though the bleeding had stopped, he hadn't looked at himself since the trial. He wasn't ready.

Mae sipped and waited.

"You're not going to ask?" Levi muttered after a long silence.

"I already asked," Mae said quietly. "You came back alive. That's enough for now."

A few moments passed before she added, "But maybe not forever."

Levi stared into the cup, watching the reflection of flame ripple and twist. He took a sip, then said, "Can I ask something… selfish?"

Mae raised an eyebrow. "You've been doing that since the day you stumbled into my hearth, boy."

Levi gave a weak, almost guilty smile. "Then… humor me again."

Mae didn't reply. She waited.

"What do you think happens," Levi asked slowly, "when you die… and you can't say sorry?"

Mae tilted her head, not with scorn, but with genuine curiosity. "Sorry for what?"

He was quiet for a long while. Then, finally:

"My mother."

The name caught in his throat. He hadn't spoken about her in… how long? Months? Years? Maybe more. But the ache had never gone away. Only buried.

"She was… annoying," he began bitterly, then stopped himself and shook his head. "No. That's not fair. She just… she asked a lot of questions. Little things. Like—if I ate, or how school went. If I had plans for the weekend. Nothing special. But it always made me angry. I'd snap at her. Avoid her."

"Why?" Mae asked, not gently, but not unkindly.

Levi laughed, but it was a dry, bitter sound. "I don't know. That's the worst part. I really don't. It was like… something inside me just twisted whenever she wanted to be part of my life. Like I couldn't let her in without being reminded I wasn't doing anything worth being proud of."

Mae listened, letting the fire crackle fill the space.

"My father," Levi continued, "was an orphan. Grew up with nothing. Fought tooth and nail to give us something better. He'd always say I didn't know what struggle meant. That I had a roof, food, a school. So why wasn't I doing more?"

He shook his head, staring into the fire again.

"He wasn't cruel, just… hard. And I think I took all the pressure he gave me and shoved it at her. Like it was her fault I wasn't living up to anything."

Mae watched him, her own cup forgotten. The look on her face wasn't pity. It was something heavier.

"I always thought," Levi whispered, "that I'd make it up to her. Someday. When I figured things out. I'd buy her a little house or take her on a trip. Just… something to show I was worth it."

His voice cracked. "But I wasted everything. And now she's gone. I don't know if she's alive back there or if she ever knew I regretted it. And I'll never know."

Mae finally spoke. "You loved her."

"Of course I did," Levi snapped. Then, softer, "But I didn't show it. Not when it mattered."

They sat in silence again. The fire hissed as a log shifted, sending a plume of smoke into the air.

"I think about her more than I should," Levi admitted. "Not as some saint. Just… the little things. How she used to hum when she cleaned. Or how she'd cry at stupid commercials. I used to make fun of her for that. God, I was such a little shit."

He wiped at his eye—his good one—and blinked fast.

"I keep wondering," he said, "if this world is punishment. Or mercy."

Mae looked at him closely. "And which do you think it is?"

He gave a long, aching breath. "Both. Maybe it's what I needed. But I'd give anything just to tell her I'm sorry."

Mae reached out then and put a hand on his shoulder, firm but warm.

"You carry that guilt, Levi," she said. "That's fine. Let it weigh on you if it keeps you walking straight. But don't let it bury you."

He nodded slowly, unable to say more.

She stood to leave but paused at the edge of the firelight.

"Next time you feel like snapping at someone," she said, "think of her. Let that love do something useful."

Then she walked back into the dark, leaving him alone again by the fire.

Levi stayed there long into the night, staring at the glowing coals, haunted by a face he would never see again—and unsure whether the tears were enough to make peace with the past.