His gaze dropped. The so-called "jacket" didn't even reach Veer's knees.
He sighed. A deep, helpless sigh that felt like it came from the soul. "What even is this…" he muttered.
Then something caught his eye. His expression shifted.
His eyes narrowed and focused on the collar. There—faint but clear—were letters carved, stitched carefully in a language that made no sense to him.
"huh?" he mumbled aloud, his thick fingers brushing over the letters. "A…Y…A."
Confused, he glanced up at Veer, brows furrowed. "What's this supposed to mean? Who made this?"
None of them had ever learned English. Not him, not his son, not anyone in their flock. The letters were foreign, strange—yet clearly human, and precise.
Veer followed his father's gaze, reached up, and traced the letters with a thumb. His brow scrunched, then he let out a small groan and rubbed his forehead, clearly frustrated.
"I don't know…" he admitted with a sigh. "I just… thought it looked nice. So I added it."
