Two years and two months have passed.
The seasons have turned, the snow has melted, and the world has thawed. It is currently early spring. The air is fresh, smelling of wet earth and blooming wildflowers.
A lot has happened.
I have finally started to speak. I can speak pretty fluently now, and I can walk without looking like a drunkard stumbling home from a tavern. In fact, I probably speak a little too well for a three-year-old. I have to constantly catch myself. It takes a lot of mental effort to filter my vocabulary. Just yesterday, I almost told Roxas that the structural integrity of a chair leg looked "compromised." I had to bite my tongue and switch it to "wobbly."
My parents have noticed how fast I pick things up. They don't know the truth, of course. They just praise me constantly, looking at each other with wide, beaming eyes, convinced they have birthed a genius.
"He's so smart, Sylvia. Did you hear him ask for water? He used a full sentence!"
I try to stay quiet mostly, just nodding or using simple words to keep the illusion intact.
Physically, I have conquered my greatest enemy: the stairs. I can now navigate the house with ease.
My room has gone through a complete transformation. The crib is gone, replaced by a "big boy" bed. Naturally, Roxas built it himself. It is made of smooth, pale ash wood, sturdy enough to hold a grown man but sized perfectly for me. The headboard has intricate carvings of leaves and vines that seem to wind around the posts.
On the wall opposite my bed, there is a sturdy oak shelf. That is where the Flit lives. The wooden squirrel-bird hybrid sits there, its wings dusted and polished, watching over the room like a guardian.
But despite my "genius" status, there is a problem I didn't anticipate.
The brain.
My mind is sixteen. My memories are clear. But my hardware? My hardware is three. And a three-year-old brain is a chaotic, chemical mess.
It happened at lunch yesterday.
I was sitting in my high chair, eating a bowl of stewed pears. I was enjoying them. They were sweet, soft, and warm. I reached out with my wooden spoon to scoop up the last piece. The biggest, juiciest slice in the bowl.
My hand twitched.
The spoon clipped the edge of the bowl. The pear slice catapulted into the air, performed a slow-motion backflip, and landed with a wet plap on the dirty floorboards.
I stared at it.
It's fine, my adult brain said. It's just a piece of fruit. I can wash it off, or just eat another one.
But then, the chemicals hit.
A wave of absolute, crushing devastation washed over me. My lip started to tremble. My chest tightened. It felt like I had just lost the World Series. It felt like my dog had died.
Don't cry, I told myself. You are a high school athlete. You are mentally an adult. Do not cry over a pear.
"My pear..." I whispered.
Then, the dam broke.
"WAAAAAAH!"
I threw my head back and screamed. Tears shot out of my eyes like a cartoon character. I slammed my hands on the tray of the high chair. I wasn't just sad; I was enraged. The injustice of gravity! The cruelty of the floor!
"Percy? Oh no, did you drop it?" Sylvia rushed over, wiping her hands on a towel.
"I WANTED THAAAT OOOONE!" I shrieked, my voice cracking.
Inside, my rational mind was horrified. Stop it! Shut up! You look ridiculous! It's a fruit!
But I couldn't stop. The toddler brain had seized the controls. I cried for five minutes straight. I cried until I got the hiccups. Even after Sylvia washed the pear and gave it back to me, I was still sniffling, feeling a deep, lingering sense of emotional betrayal.
It was humiliating. It was a stark reminder that while I might have my memories, I was still a prisoner to the biology of a child.
To escape the humiliation of the Pear Incident, I've started making regular trips to the village with Roxas. He usually takes me to the shop a few times a week to watch him work.
It is fascinating.
Roxas is a master. I realized that early on, but watching him work up close is different. He takes on everything from large dining tables for the village council to small, delicate jewelry boxes for the merchants' wives. He never cuts corners. He treats the back of a drawer, a part no one will ever see, with the same level of detail as the front face.
I am currently sitting on a high stool near the workbench, my short legs dangling above the floor. I watch him intently.
He is planing a long plank of cedar.
He doesn't just push the tool. It starts in his feet.
I watch his stance. His feet are shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent. As he prepares the stroke, he shifts his weight to his back leg, loading the potential energy. Then, he drives forward. The power travels up his legs, rotates through his hips, locks into his core, and finally transfers into his arms and the tool.
Shhhh-thwip.
A long, paper-thin curl of wood peels away, smelling of lemon and resin.
It's the exact same mechanic as pitching. The wind-up, the drive, the release. If you try to throw a ball using just your arm, you'll blow out your shoulder. If you try to plane wood using just your biceps, you'll tire out in an hour. Roxas uses his whole body. He uses the earth.
"See how the grain runs, Percy?" Roxas asks, pausing to wipe sweat from his brow. He points to the dark lines running through the timber. "You never fight the grain. You work with it. If you fight it, the wood splits. If you guide it, it becomes smooth."
I nod, absorbing it all. "Like throwing a curve," I mutter to myself. "Don't force the spin."
"What was that?" Roxas asks, smiling.
"Nothing, Dad. It looks smooth."
Suddenly, the bell above the door jingles.
Roxas looks up, blowing sawdust off the wood.
A man walks in.