Today, I decided it would be the most beautiful day in the world.
I woke up with the sun cracked open in the sky like a golden yolk spilled on silk. It was warm beneath the blanket.
The air slled like eggs, butter, and Milo’s morning grumble echoing from the kitchen.
I like when he grumbles—it ans he’s here.
— "Up and at ’em, sleepy marmot!"
Always the sa line. I smiled into my pillow. My stuffed toy pressed close to my chest.
I slipped into my white dress—the one Milo calls "the dress for days that matter."
I brushed my hair the way he taught . Even if it tugged a little. I looked into the mirror and whispered :
— "Today, I’ll make you proud, Milo."
At breakfast, I ate everything. The chocolate, the eggs—even the burnt edge.
He pretended to grumble, but I know he was happy.
— "What do you want for your gift tomorrow ?" he asked.
— "I want you to let surprise you," I replied.
He raised an eyebrow. Then smiled. Milo rarely smiles. So when he does, it’s like winning a battle with the devil.
I walked to school on my own. Sotis, I do that. Milo hates it, but I like how it makes feel older.
Today, I wanted to buy sothing with my own coins.
I had taken them—just a few—from his button jar. He never noticed.
I bought a bracelet. Cheap plastic, white, with a dove-shaped bead.
— "It’s for my dad," I told the shopkeeper.
She asked if he was Milo. She said he was strange, but he loved deeply. I said,
— "He’s the kindest monster I know."
In the afternoon, I drew a the park.
And I thought, maybe soday, we’ll go together. A real one—not just pictures on the TV.
I’d tell him, "Look, there are rides. No ox blood in sight." He’d laugh. Maybe.
Or maybe he’d cry. Milo cries in secret, when he thinks I’m asleep.
He murmurs nas I don’t know.
I think he’s scared of love. Scared it always leaves.
But I stayed.
Even when he scread.
Even when he punched the wall and it trembled.
Even when he bled from smashing the mirror.
He knelt before once and said, "I don’t deserve to live with you."
And I replied, "Then live for ."
That night, I ca ho late. I wanted the surprise to be real.
I took a shortcut. An alleyway. Soone said, "Hey, little one." I didn’t answer.
Another asked, "Want so candy ?"
I ran.
I slipped.
And then—I woke up in darkness. My wrists were bound. My heart beat too fast. Cold crept in. I scread. Again and again.
But no one ca.
I think I cried. Or maybe not. Maybe I just waited.
I told him to live for . Now, he has no reason to live unless he chooses to forget.
Then a man ca. His cologne was too strong.
He spoke like he was kind. But he wasn’t. He said I was "special." Said he’d make an actress.
I bit him.
He hit .
And I dread I could fly.
Later, I rember... Puck Land. A fake carnival.
People, music too loud, and muffled cries behind the walls.
I think I died there.
Or maybe... a little earlier. When I realized no one would ever hear .
If I stayed, Milo would have suffered longer.
And yes—he did forget . But I’m still waiting for my lullaby.
Please... tell him I wasn’t afraid at the end.
Tell him I flew away.
With the monster-eyes from my dream.
And his arms catching .
∞
In the morning, he wore the apron again. Cooked eggs, brewed coffee, ward the chocolate.
— "Up, marmot!" he called. "Last day before the fair!"
No answer.
He entered the room.
Sophia was gone.
Not in bed. Not beneath the covers. Not in the bathroom.
Not anywhere.
Sothing cracked inside him. An ice-thread through the chest.
He saw the window—left ajar. On the dust of the windows, a tiny footprint.
And on the table : a note in a rushed scrawl.
"Went to get your surprise for tomorrow. Don’t worry, Daddy. I love you."
And so, Milo stood still.
And he trusted Sophia.
She would co back.
Wouldn’t she ?
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