Cracked Eggshells and Blunt Truths

It was early evening, and the workshop smelled like sawdust and varnish. Most of the village had retired for supper, but Kaelyn lingered inside, idly tapping a chisel against the edge of a worn table. The chisel, much like his thoughts, wasn’t doing anything particularly useful.
 
Mara stepped in from the side door, hands stained with paint, a smudge of green on her cheek. She eyed him from across the room. “You’re brooding again.”
 
Kaelyn didn’t look up. “I’m thinking.”
 
“Same thing, with more sulking.”
 
He sighed. “What do you want, Mara?”
 
“I live here. I want to grab my brush and not listen to you beat up that poor table like it insulted your mother.”
 
Kaelyn froze.
 
Mara noticed, instantly regretted her phrasing, and exhaled hard. “Too far. Sorry.”
 
“…It’s fine.”
 
“No,” she said, walking over, “it’s not. But we’re siblings, and that means saying stupid things and then pretending we didn’t.”
 
He snorted, half a laugh.
 
She leaned on the table, crossing her arms. “You always get weird this time of year. Is it the anniversary?”
 
Kaelyn just nodded, the rhythm of his tapping stopped now. “It’s like… everyone else got to know her except me. And when I got here, it was like I stepped into someone else’s story. I’m just… the edit.”
 
Mara picked up a woodchip and flicked it at him. “You’re not an edit. You’re the footnote no one expected, but it turned out to be the best part of the book.”
 
He raised an eyebrow. “That supposed to be comforting?”
 
“Would it kill you to take a compliment?”
 
He cracked a smile. “If it came from you? Maybe.”
 
Mara rolled her eyes. “Look, you’re not the only one who lost her. You’re just the only one who didn’t get a single day with her. That sucks. I won’t lie. But that doesn’t make your claim on her less real.”
 
“She wouldn’t even recognize me.”
 
“She would’ve,” Mara said firmly. “She was good at that sort of thing. Seeing people. I think that’s where you get it from—your way of reading a room, knowing just what to say. She had that too, from what Papa says.”
 
Kaelyn fell silent, then quietly asked, “Why do you care so much?”
 
Mara blinked, then looked away, fiddling with the paint on her sleeve. “Because I was angry at you at first. You showed up out of nowhere, and suddenly our father, the man who barely raises his voice, just accepts you. No questions. No doubts. But he was never warm. He never celebrated that you were back.”
 
“I noticed.”
 
“And that hurt,” Mara said. “Because I realized… if he could accept you, why not love you?”
 
Kaelyn blinked, caught off guard.
 
“You being here forced me to admit something: He doesn’t love loudly. But he doesn’t lie either. If he says you’re his son… then you are. And that means you’re my brother, and I guess I’d rather have a chaotic, sarcastic, lying, dancing mess of a brother… than none at all.”
 
Kaelyn swallowed hard. “So that means you like me now?”
 
“Don’t push it,” she said quickly, jabbing him in the ribs.
 
He grinned. “It’s okay. I like you too.”
 
Mara looked at him with mock horror. “Ugh, feelings. I take it all back.”
 
He leaned closer, eyes glinting with mischief. “You’re my favorite sister.”
 
“There are only two of us.”
 
“Still counts.”
 
She turned, walking back to the door. “You’re an idiot.”
 
“An idiot who’s your brother.”
 
Mara paused at the threshold. “Yeah… I know.”
 
And with that, she left him to his brooding—but it no longer felt so heavy. Not now that someone had chosen to stay and throw woodchips at him through it.