(no subject)
It wasn't much of anything, to begin with.
Slowly, bit by bit since the blizzard, they'd been moving Sarah into the other hut with him and Coraline. There was something about Adam that was reticent, this time. He'd come so close to this with Angela, built the bedroom for her, in the first place, and the whole process made him grim and silent some of the time, though never around Sarah and Coraline. For them, he managed smiles.
Eventually, he was going to get the fuck out of it. He was going to make himself.
If you got lucky, if you got lucky twice, you didn't take it for granted and you didn't fucking ruin it for yourself. If anybody knew that by now, it was Adam Carter.
Somewhere in his travels and his troubles, Adam had learned how to work with wood. He'd been working this one piece for a while now, smooth it down until it was almost a pebble, warm and rounded in his palm. Carefully, so careful, sitting in the kitchen where the light was good, Adam was carving something into the wood. It was an Arabic proverb he'd first heard in Damascus before he'd ever met Fiona.
Eli fat mat, it said. What is past is dead.
It seemed strangely apt. He'd already bored a hole into the top of the pendant. He'd find something to hang it on later. He didn't know whether Sarah would want to wear it. It didn't really matter if she did or she didn't.
It was the thought that counted here.
Slowly, bit by bit since the blizzard, they'd been moving Sarah into the other hut with him and Coraline. There was something about Adam that was reticent, this time. He'd come so close to this with Angela, built the bedroom for her, in the first place, and the whole process made him grim and silent some of the time, though never around Sarah and Coraline. For them, he managed smiles.
Eventually, he was going to get the fuck out of it. He was going to make himself.
If you got lucky, if you got lucky twice, you didn't take it for granted and you didn't fucking ruin it for yourself. If anybody knew that by now, it was Adam Carter.
Somewhere in his travels and his troubles, Adam had learned how to work with wood. He'd been working this one piece for a while now, smooth it down until it was almost a pebble, warm and rounded in his palm. Carefully, so careful, sitting in the kitchen where the light was good, Adam was carving something into the wood. It was an Arabic proverb he'd first heard in Damascus before he'd ever met Fiona.
Eli fat mat, it said. What is past is dead.
It seemed strangely apt. He'd already bored a hole into the top of the pendant. He'd find something to hang it on later. He didn't know whether Sarah would want to wear it. It didn't really matter if she did or she didn't.
It was the thought that counted here.