It is Achilles’s birthday.

For several weeks, you bent over a lump of exquisite driftwood you had found at the beach. You figured it would be lightweight, beautiful (if you could work it correctly), and smell of the sea. Something to always remind him of you, himself, and his mother. Knives and fingernails alike had scratched into the lumber until the perfect shape of a layer was forged. You worked tirelessly. Splinter after splinter, cut after cut, callous after callous… you would not rest until you were done. And by the time Achilles grows older by another year, you have the perfect gift for him.

You waited until the right moment. Nobody was around, not Peleus or the guards or Phoinix. Not even any of the other foster boys. Just you and Achilles, alone in the dining hall, the uneaten skins of fruits lying about the table. The lyre rests in a burlap sack between your legs.

You introduce the gift timidly. Words trip over one another, eager to release themselves, nearly two months of excitement boiling over now into pure fear. As you speak, you slowly remove the lyre from the sack, and Achilles attempts to peek beneath the table. You kick his shin. It feels like years pass. Then, finally, you produce the lyre, holding it out to him with a trembling hand.

Gingerly, he takes it. The wood is light and soft. The strings are perfectly tightened. It smells like the sea; it smells like his mother’s home. His fingers run gently along the details. You cannot see it, but there are tears in his eyes.

“You made this?” He breathes, watching the smooth material glide beneath his fingertips. Then he lifts his head to you. “For me?”