It might be. It might be that he's hummed this now and again, wordless, yet steadily becoming something. A song that's not yet done.
But a song that's them.
He finishes cooking, the way he remembers they like their eggs done, only to turn around and see them there, fast asleep. He smiles and goes to them, kissing their head. They're really, really overdue for rest.
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But a song that's them.
He finishes cooking, the way he remembers they like their eggs done, only to turn around and see them there, fast asleep. He smiles and goes to them, kissing their head. They're really, really overdue for rest.