Myree picked up her sewing and started to hem the tunic she was repairing for Lord Pyle. She had been widowed a year gone. The fire that had taken her husband and beloved son had been ruled accidental by the city watch, but Myree knew better. Her son had been three when he had burned.
She had another son now. Dab, his name was, the same as her dead boy, and he was about eight – an age where he could talk back, though she had never heard him speak.
Her neighbours thought her mad.
She wasn’t mad. She continued to sew. She worked for the tailor in town, and from time to time she did some small repair work for paying customers of her own. Her work was as good as it had ever been, except for the couple of months after the fire. It took that long before her new boy arrived, and she had been able to rebuild her life in her new home, kindly provided to her by the tailor. Such a sweet boy he was.
This was a nice tunic, she thought as she drew the needle in and out. She would need more thread shortly.
The kinder of her neighbours said that she had a vivid imagination. The less kind said that she was off her rocker. There was no boy, they said. Dab had died in the fire.
Yes, he had. But this was a different Dab. An older Dab. One who could help her around the house, though he never had, except by his presence.
Sometimes she sent him out to play. She watched from her front window, but the other kids never played with him. They ignored him. But that was all right. He seemed to be happier playing by himself.
Each night she would cook for two – herself and Dab. The boy was small for his age, and didn’t eat much. There was always some left over in his bowl at the end of the meal, which Myree always finished for him.
He slept in his own bed in her room – the new place was not opulent enough for a second bedroom. Sometimes he woke her up in the middle of the night for a cup of water. She always got up to get it for him, though he was always asleep again when she returned.
She stopped her sewing and frowned. Thinking of sleep reminded her of the strange dream he had last night. All she could really remember about it was the vivid colour – a reddish orange – but the details wouldn’t return to her memory. She had woken up this morning feeling like she had missed out on several hours’ sleep.
She shook her head and dismissed it from her mind.
“Dab, child, fetch me that blue linen thread, would you?” she said out loud. “There’s a good boy.”
“Yes, mama,” replied Dab as he went and brought the thread back from across the room and placed it in her hand. His eyes, she noticed, were the same reddish orange colour of her dream.
Such a sweet boy.
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