Years of Waiting

The years spun by like fallen leaves caught in a sudden gust of wind. Sharin, no longer the girl who chafed under her father’s pronouncements, found herself on the cusp of womanhood. Her hands, once small and tentative, now moved with a practiced grace, capable of weaving intricate patterns on the loom or kneading dough with a firm, steady pressure. Yet, beneath the surface of her growing competence, the old resentments simmered, a low, persistent ache that no amount of time seemed able to soothe. Her father’s words, once a sharp sting, had dulled into a constant hum, a background noise to her life: *“Sharin, make sure Hectorn has his supper.” “Sharin, Hectorn needs his shoes tied.” “Sharin, Hectorn is asking for you.”* They were less commands now, and more the ingrained rhythm of their household, a testament to a duty that had never truly ended.

Hectorn, too, had changed, though not in the ways Sharin secretly wished. The boy who had once clung to her skirts was now a lanky youth, his limbs long and awkward, his eyes perpetually wide and searching, always finding Sharin. He still called her “Shari-bear,” a nickname that used to melt her heart but now felt like a chain, a childish endearment that underscored his unwavering dependence. He fumbled with buttons, his fingers clumsy and uncertain. He’d stare at a bowl of stew, waiting for her to stir it, to ensure it wasn't too hot, or too cold, or just right. He’d mimic her movements, his gaze fixed on her, as if absorbing some essential knowledge that she possessed and he lacked.

One crisp autumn afternoon, the scent of woodsmoke thick in the air, Sharin was mending a tear in Hectorn's worn tunic. Her father sat by the hearth, his gaze fixed on the dancing flames, a rare moment of quiet contemplation. Hectorn, sprawled on the floor beside Sharin, was attempting to stack wooden blocks. Each attempt ended in a clatter, the blocks tumbling down with a frustrated sigh.