Chapter 1
Some Years Ago...
She’s very young. Three or four perhaps, maybe five. Old enough to dream, young enough for those dreams to still be innocent. She’s born for great things, but while sitting in a sandbox, she has other things on her mind.
She wants to make a sandcastle. A big, big sandcastle. Or she wants to swing, she can’t decide which. Swinging is like flying, and she wants to fly, so she picks the best, most agreeable option. She flops down on the swing.
The little girl is called Mara. This is her dream.
Mara tries to kick her legs back and forth. No matter how many times she is taught, she still can’t get it right. Her swing wobbles. But that’s it, no back and forth momentum, no kissing the sky.
Mara cries, unaware that she’s being watched.
He edges forward slowly, not wanting to scare the child. She looks up at him with innocent eyes.
“Will you push me?” She pleads. Her big green eyes look even bigger with the wet tears gathering at the corners.
He tries to smile, it is a foreign thing to him. Even more foreign, perhaps, than pushing a child on a swing, of which he has never done. The smile does not come, it is too strange a thing.
“Of course.” He says, unsure. Mara trusts him, because he is, after all, in her dream.
“What’s your name? My name’s Mara, an’ if you push me good, I’ll let you be my friend.” Mara jiggles her legs in anticipation of a good swing.
“Well, I’ll have to try my hardest then.” He gives her a small, hesitant push forward, it is so new to him. She sighs dramatically.
“You’re not very good at this.” Her little eyebrows furrow together.
“I suppose not.”
Mara crosses her arms, pouting even more. But, like a child, his inability to please her does not bother her for long. She smiles up at the stranger.
“I’ll still let you be my friend.” Her smile is contagious.
“I would have been very disappointed otherwise.” He feels that foreign thing pull at his lips again.
Mara jumps down from the swing to grab his hand. She pulls him towards the sandbox.
“Let’s make sand pies. I’ll be the mommy and you’ll be the daddy. We’re gonna cook for our friends and babies. Can you make real pies?”
“I have never tried.” He murmurs, awkwardly sitting in the small sandbox. He watches her gather sand in her tiny hands, trying to form a pie.
“Blueberry’s my favorite. You should make me a blueberry pie,” she demands of him. Another foreign thing tightens his guts.
The stranger is momentarily stunned, and slightly pleased. No one asks him for anything. Let alone blueberry pie.
“I will try.” He is serious, but doubts the baking quality of dirt.
“Promise?” She doesn’t quite believe him. Her guileless eyes lock on to his, narrowing with suspicion.
“Yes.”
“Good, you better.” She hands him a small red bucket and a tiny pink shovel. She has to show him how to make a proper blueberry mud pie.
And that foreign thing tugging at his lips finally turns into a smile.
