Mara walked up to him with a gentle smile and careful footsteps, her boots crunching softly against the scattered debris that had once been their ho.
"I've made up my mind, and it seems you want to be a supportive father," she said gently, staring at her father's weathered face.
With deliberate grace, she knelt before him on the ground covered with rubble, ignoring the sharp stones that pressed against her knees through her pants. "It would be wrong if I don't ask... I wanted your blessing, if you can give it."
Dr. Hamm's breath caught in his throat as he watched his daughter humble herself before him. The sight of her kneeling there, surrounded by the ruins of their ho, struck him with a force that made his chest tighten painfully.
She looked so much like her mother in that mont, with that sa determination set in her heart and that sa fire burning in her erald eyes.
For a long mont, Dr. Hamm was speechless, his gaze fixed on so point beyond her shoulder, lost in thought.
The wind picked up, flipping the loose papers from his destroyed building around their feet and fluttering their hair.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity rather than fleeting monts, he started speaking, his voice barely above a whisper. "Your mother was the sa way before she died."
"Headstrong, fearless, always chasing her dreams passionately. I could never talk her out of anything once she'd made up her mind."
"Headstrong, fearless, always chasing her dreams passionately," he continued, his voice growing stronger as he spoke. "She had this way of making the impossible seem not just possible, but inevitable.
"I could never talk her out of anything once she'd made up her mind. God knows I tried."
He let out a small, bitter chuckle that contained no sign of humor before continuing.
"She once decided she wanted to climb the mountain peaks during winter—winter, mind you—because she'd heard rumors of ice-type familiars appearing there, even though it wasn't true. I spent three weeks trying to convince her it was suicide. You know what she did?"
Mara shook her head, captivated. Her father so rarely spoke of her mother that every word felt like a precious gift.
"She researched everything. Cold weather survival, mountain climbing techniques, ice-type familiar behaviors. She prepared for six months, and when she went, she discovered it was a re superstition."
Dr. Hamm chuckled again. "You should have seen the look on her face after that—she was so pissed."
The ntion of her mother, who had died when Mara was still an infant, made a single teardrop roll down her cheek, leaving a clean trail on her face.
Dr. Hamm rarely spoke of her, the pain of her loss still too raw even after all these years. But now, sitting among the ruins of their ho, with his daughter about to embark on her own journey showing so many similarities, the mories seed to flow more freely. Check latest chapters at N0veI.Fiɾe
"This could be the last ti we will be speaking in a long ti," Mara said, still on her knees waiting for her father's blessing, but her head was raised to et his eyes directly.
The sunset light caught her erald eyes, making them shimr like erald gems. "Tell about her, my mother. Please."
Dr. Hamm's expression softened completely, the stern professor facade lting away to reveal a loving father beneath. "Yeah, I never really told you much about her, did I?"
He smiled, but it was a painful expression, then continued. "I always thought there would be more ti, that I'd tell you everything when you were older, when you could understand... I suppose I was protecting myself as much as you."
He shifted on his makeshift seat, the small stool creaking under his weight.
"She was brilliant, like you," he began, his voice taking on a storyteller's cadence that Mara rembered from her childhood. "But while I was content to bury myself in my books and teaching, she wanted to see everything, experience everything.
She used to say that knowledge without experience was like having a map of a country you'd never visited—a waste of ti and potential."
He paused, reaching into his travel bag and pulling out a small, leather-bound book.
"This was hers," he said, offering it to Mara. "Her field research journal. She often dragged out of my boring, focused life during every long holiday into the world with her. We traveled to places I'd only read about, t people I'd only heard about in my lectures."
Mara accepted the journal with reverence, running her fingers over the worn leather cover. She could see sketches of unfamiliar landscapes, detailed drawings of exotic familiars, and even more things she didn't recognize.
"Without her, I might never have left the village for the very first ti," Dr. Hamm continued, his voice growing warr with each mory. "She literally dragged —kicking and screaming, mind you—to the floating city of Nimbus for our honeymoon.
A mountain city, eh. Studies show one of the fastest ways to die is by falling off a mountain..."
"Dad!" Mara interrupted loudly, snapping him back.
"Oh, I'm sorry." Dr. Hamm chuckled, running his fingers through his walrus mustache. "Back to where I was.
"I was terrified of heights, you see, and the entire city floats three thousand feet above the ground."
His expression grew more solemn. "However, since her death, I began to cherish her mory and made it my mission to continue in rembrance of her and all the ti we shared.
Every exploration trip I take, every research I conduct with evidence, every new piece of knowledge I gain—it's all in her honor."
As he spoke his last statent, tears began to stream down his weathered cheeks. Tears of true pain.
Mara felt her own tears flowing freely now too, no longer caring about maintaining her composure.
"She would have loved to see what path you choose for your future," Dr. Hamm said suddenly, his voice thick with emotion. "She always said our daughter would be the one to surpass us both, to go places we could never imagine.
Even when you were just a baby, barely able to hold your head up, she would look at you and say, 'This one will change the world, honey. Mark my words.'"
"She used to make read adventure stories to you in your crib," he continued, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Beautiful tales of great summoners and their familiars, the plane of familiars, battles between heroes and villains. I thought it was silly—you were too young to understand—but she insisted.
It was almost like she knew she wouldn't be with us long. She always told you needed to hear about the world that was waiting for you."
Dr. Hamm reached out then, taking Mara's hand in both of his. His hands were smaller than hers now, she realized.
"She would be proud of you," he said firmly, his voice carrying absolute conviction. "Terrified for you, because that's what parents do, but proud beyond asure."
"And you?" Mara asked, her voice quivering as more tears rolled down her face, leaving clean tracks on her cheeks. "Are you proud too?"
Dr. Hamm's other hand ca up to cup her cheek with a gentle touch.
"Always," he assured her, his voice breaking slightly on the word. "Even when you're making decisions that give gray hair—even though I already have plenty."
"It is your life, not mine," he said quietly. "But I'll always be here to advise you, to catch you if you fall, to celebrate your victories from afar.
You're not just my daughter, Mara—you're my greatest achievent, my proudest accomplishnt. Whatever path you choose, wherever it leads you, that will never change."
Relief washed over her, and she found herself smiling through her tears. The weight she'd been carrying, the fear that she was disappointing him, began to lift from her shoulders.
"So, you'll give your blessing?" she asked, hope in her voice.
"I'll give you sothing better," he replied, pulling down his collar to reveal an erald pendant that had been hidden beneath his shirt.
The pendant was unlike anything Mara had ever seen. The erald was perfectly cut, about the size of a locket, and it seed to glow with an inner light as if energy residuals were contained within it. Yes, energy residuals—that pendant wasn't ordinary for sure.
It would take a single glance for even a fool to realize this.
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