Aima Wren's Arc

Chapter 3 of 5

Aima picked up the vase to examine it more closely, turning it in her hands. The willow pattern wound all the way around — branches drooping toward water, stones nestled beneath them. Beautiful work, but something caught her attention. The design felt familiar in a way that made her pause. She glanced at Gedda, then back at the vase. Years ago, before he left, he'd talked about his mother's work constantly. One afternoon he'd described a willow pattern she'd been planning — branches and stones, exactly like this. His mother had sketched it in her journal, he'd said, but never carved it into clay. Aima looked at the carved lines again, following the careful curves. This wasn't his mother's hand finishing her own design. Gedda had carved this himself. She set the vase down and walked to a wooden chest against the wall, the kind potters kept for storing tools and patterns. Inside she found sketches and templates, including one with willow branches drawn in faded ink. The pattern matched perfectly. Gedda's mother had left the design behind, and he'd learned to carve it without her. He'd finished her work, but he'd also made it his own. When she turned around, Gedda was watching her. His expression hadn't changed — still gutted, still lost — but she understood now. He wasn't grieving the firing of his mother's work. He was grieving the moment he'd had to pick up her tools and become the one who finished it. Aima walked back to the shelf where the completed pieces sat cooling and placed the vase among them. She didn't say anything, because words had never been the language that worked between them. But she stayed, and that was enough for now.