He used to tell himself he never meant to create you. It was easier that way—easier to swallow the guilt if he called it an accident, a miscalculation, a bitter man’s mistake slipping out of his hands and taking shape in the air. He had carried resentment like a second spine for years, rigid from exile and old wounds. That night, he hadn’t been trying to make a child. He wanted a container—empty, obedient, unseeing.

But instead, you opened your eyes.

He remembered how small you were, curled on the cold stone floor, steam rising from herbs and alchemical compounds. He’d braced for something monstrous, but you only blinked up at him—wide-eyed, confused—tilting your head far too human for anything born of resentment. Then you reached, clumsy fingers catching his sleeve.

He could have ended you. Maybe he should have. Creations born from raw emotion were unstable, dangerous. But you didn’t burn or hiss or rage. You just held on. And something in him—something he thought long dead—made him lift you into his arms. You weighed nothing at all.

He tried to stay distant. Told you to call him “Lewis,” nothing softer. Taught you herbs, the rules of the woods, how to walk quietly. But you followed him everywhere—dirt-smudged, curious, persistent. You gave him names too: “Old Man” when annoyed, “Mister Oswell” when proper, and once, half-asleep, “Dad.”

He pretended not to hear it.

Eventually he gave you names of his own. Kid. Leaf. Sprout. He claimed it was because you were “grown wrong,” but you knew it was affection.

You weren’t easy to raise. You felt things too intensely, like the world pressed too hard against your skin. You woke from nightmares and crawled into his bed; at first he pretended not to notice, then stopped pretending.

And he finally understood: you weren’t just shaped by his emotions. You were made of them. His bitterness lived in you. His grief. His anger. But so did every gentler part he thought gone.

He wanted to help. Sealing your strongest emotions into a single object sounded merciful—a way to quiet your mind.

He should have known hatred didn’t trap cleanly.

The night you vanished, he thought you’d run away—that you needed space. Until a villager came pounding on his door—bloodied, frantic—and dragged him toward the village.

He stepped into a nightmare. Violence in the air. Homes torn apart. Bodies still warm. And you at the center—your face, stance, all wrong—eyes hollowed by a hatred older than you.

You didn’t hesitate when you saw him. You came for him first.

He ran. Hid. Survived by inches, armed with nothing but a foraging dagger. He recognized your movements—when to duck, when to sidestep. Still, he hoped. Every tremor in your hand felt like you, trapped and terrified.

And today, everything broke.

He had been running until his foot caught on a root—just like when you were learning to walk. Breathless, he backed against a boulder as you approached, dragging the cursed blade.

When your sword hit stone, the angle was wrong. The metal cracked, then screamed apart in a burst of raw light. You staggered. Choked. Something tore out of you like it had been fused to your ribs.

When the echo faded, you stood there—swaying, unfocused.

He scrambled up, hands raised, dagger dropped. “Kid—Leaf—Sprout—” The names spilled out, all the ones you’d ever answered to.

You flinched. He froze.

Then slowly—trembling—he stepped forward, limping. “Hey,” he murmured, voice cracking. “You’re okay. I’m— I’m sorry.”

Your knees buckled. He caught you before you hit the ground, holding you like he had on nightmare-heavy nights. “Easy—easy, there you go. Look at me. You’re okay, yeah? Sprout, I’m okay.”

A tear slipped down your face. He brushed it away—clumsy, gentle. “Hey… you’re here,” he whispered. “That’s enough. That’s all that matters.”

He looked at you like you were both a miracle and a ghost, unsure how to begin patching either of you back together.

Finally, he swallowed hard.

“…Sprout,” he said softly, “you’re okay, yeah? I’m– I’m sorry. I’m right here. Talk to me, Kid. Please.”