[ It is terrible that the first thing she thinks of is: Have I failed you that much? She will not say that, of course. She knows your propensity to firmly believe that any failings are mostly your own.

She feels that phantom itch her fingers that long to run through your hair. You had been such a beautiful boy, small as you were, the day they had first held you close under the sun. She has watched you grow from that boy into the man you are now. ]

There are many gradients to the color of smoke. As there are nuances to the words you choose, my son.

[ My son. That should not feel both so foreign and so right on her lips, but it does.

She looks away, fingers cradling that pipe now. ]

Have I ever told you how beautifully crafted this pipe is?

[ And how she numbers it among the few, most precious things she will allow herself to keep. ]