His palm presses against my belly as the lullaby continues. I think of all the mothers and fathers over the centuries who’ve sang these same words to their own children in the dark, and I feel like I’m part of a great human tradition in a way I haven’t ever felt before.
I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stop from making a sound. The tears come anyway, sliding silent and hot down my temples and into my hair. I don’t try to stop them. Some moments are too sacred for pride.
I stay perfectly still, eyes closed, heart breaking open in the best possible way. The lullaby goes on, verse after verse. Bastian’s voice starts to waver on certain syllables in a way that tells me he’s crying, too. After everything he’s done and everything that’s been done to him, after the blood and the bullets
