Week 1
Summer has come. The snow has melted, revealing mud, bones, and the unbearable sound of Dong Quixote’s morning “morale rituals.” Today he oiled himself with what he claimed was sacred “sun-wolf grease.” He was shirtless, again, and danced in the square. Three children cried. One woman fainted. Dong called it “spiritual elevation.”

Cassius recited a poem about the moon. I think it was a poem. It could have been a love letter to his own reflection.

Damascus served us “breakfast kebabs” made of pickled eggs and marshmallow bark. Aurelia ate them like they were truffles. She hasn’t stopped smiling since.

I miss Santiago.

Week 2
Cassius has written seventeen odes. One to Aurelia’s hammer. One to a spoon. One to a splinter in his finger he insists is “the shard of fate.”

Damascus invented “hot wine salad.” It was exactly what it sounds like, and worse. Dong says it gave him visions. He tried to convince a goat to lead a rebellion.

Aurelia lounges in the forge like a queen, draped in adoration. She hasn’t paid for a thing in two weeks. Somehow, she has Damascus convinced he owes her his future children.

I found Santiago’s old knife in the bottom of my pack. Dull, rusted. I can’t bring myself to sharpen it.

Week 3
Dong challenged a tree to a duel. The tree won.

Cassius wrote a tragic monologue from the perspective of a burnt pancake. It ended with him sobbing into his wine. Aurelia clapped like she was at the opera.

Damascus combined jam and dried squid. Aurelia called it “an unexpected delight.” I think she’s lost her sense of taste. Possibly her soul.

I saw a man in the market—broad shoulders, that same careless confidence in his stride. For a moment, I thought it was Santiago. My heart stopped. But when he turned, the eyes were wrong. Too soft.

Santiago doesn’t limp. He moves like he owns the world and dares anyone to say otherwise.

I bought a bottle of plum liquor anyway and drank it behind the tannery.

Week 4
Cassius is now referring to himself as “The Bard of Flame and Flesh.” He tried to write a poem on my cloak. With ink. While I was wearing it.

Dong has started wearing a cape and shouting “Morale check!” before hip-thrusting into rooms.

Damascus put fish in coffee. I cannot describe the scent. I nearly threw him into the river.

Aurelia kissed someone in the square today. I don’t think she even knew his name. She just looked at me afterward and said, “You see, darling? I still have it.”

I nearly punched her. Instead, I laughed. Then I cried. Then I punched Cassius for rhyming “grief” with “beef.”

Week 5
Dong has painted abs on his already bare torso. Cassius says it’s performance art. Damascus tried to make “fermented stew foam.” Aurelia told him it was genius and now he won’t stop.

They built a shrine to Aurelia in the forge. It’s made of spoons, old nails, and a terrifying sculpture of her face made of cheese.

I dreamed of Santiago. We were running. Not from anything. Just running. And laughing.
When I woke up, I’d rolled into the hearth ashes. Aurelia put a blanket over me and said nothing.

Week 6
Dong tried to form a militia. He called it the Order of Gyration. Instead of men in this militia, they were goats. Cassius wrote their anthem. Damascus cooked celebratory “grape meat pie.” We banned all three from public events.

Aurelia got drunk and forged a tiara out of scrap metal. She made me wear it. Said I’m a “princess of shadows.” I wore it for five minutes before throwing it in the river.

Cassius dived in after it.

I miss Santiago every day. But today I didn’t cry. Today I laughed. And I let Aurelia take the last piece of bread, even though I was hungry.

Maybe this is healing. Or maybe it’s madness.

Either way, it’s mine.