"I am not ready to raise a kid."
"No one's signing you up for a Father of the Year award."
The universe is made of stories. And Maeve Fluer-Reyes had her own.
With pictured misfits in her life, the twelve-year-old was up for anything as long as she...
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SEBASTIAN REYES
When we love, we always strive to become better than we are. When we strive to become better than we are, everything around us becomes better too.
The engine's quiet hum blended with the low rustling of pages— pages, I was lost to, waiting in the solitude of my car. 'Alchemist' by Paulo Coelho rested before me, a familiar companion, a tale of dreams, destiny, and the pursuit of one's personal legend. It was a book that had touched my heart in more ways than one, and I found myself revisiting it like an old friend.
As I read, my thoughts began to drift, carried away by the message of the book. It was fascinating how certain pieces of art could resonate so deeply with individuals, how they could find a home in someone's heart, and become an intrinsic part of their life's fabric.
Everyone had that one movie, that one song, that one book that they held dear—a piece of creativity that spoke to them on an almost spiritual level.
And it was beautiful, in its own way. The idea that someone could create something, a piece of their soul lay bare, and share it with the world. How a carefully crafted sentence, a single melody, or a vivid scene could resonate with someone in a way that nothing else could.
I paused, my eyes lifting from the time-worn book, and staring beyond the windshield to a distance, registering the daylight that had emerged, sharp at six.
The bitter cold, however, still lingered in the surrounding, refusing to release its grip ahead of the hour.
The world outside seemed to hold a different kind of promise, a promise swirled in hope and a hand above all, promising some cosmic confirmation of what I had just realized—my own pursuit of meaning, my own personal legend, my own daughter.
My reverie was interrupted by the sound of the main door opening, and I looked up to see Maeve— wrapped, haphazardly, in a blanket. Her hair was tousled from sleep, a fictional portrait of reluctance at an ungodly hour.
As she settled into the passenger seat, I bookmarked my page and closed the book, setting it aside.
A small, almost wistful smile, troubled the edges of my lips, resurfacing, as I saw her eyes, still weighed down by sleep, closed momentarily. Maeve was not a morning person, by any means, and it showed. "Do you have a direct connection to the universe's morning hotline?" She grumbled drowsily.
"What?"
Maeve yawned, stretching her arms past the remnants of sleep to gesture around. "I mean, here you are, all fancy in your three-piece suit, while I'm still waiting for my groggy signal to come through."
"Are you jealous of my suit or are you sleep talking?" I mocked her, already starting to pull out of the driveway and merging into the sparse traffic of the waking city.
