Dy Jemidi [District Three]

Dy Jemidi -- twenty-seven -- District Three

Childhood wasn't as long ago as it feels. Piano brings it closer, sometimes; that used to hurt, but lately it's become a comfort. If Dy closes her eyes to play an old song it almost feels like the ghost of his mother's fingers are dancing on the other side of the keyboard, almost sounds like his father is humming cheerfully along from the other chair. He can't remember their faces well, and his other memories only surface to dart away again like minnows, but this way they're not all the way gone. Not yet.

They were good parents. School was a blur of tears and raised voices and trying desperately to say and wear and do and be normal things. Long as their days were and exhausted as they must have been, Dy's parents never resented the hours they spent drying tears or painstakingly guiding Dy through finding the answers to every piece of homework. None of their advice for making friends worked and they were quietly baffled by any attempt to explain that Dy wasn't a girl, but they never lost faith in her and they always let her wear whatever she wanted, so she can't resent them for not understanding everything perfectly.

Can't resent them for dying, either. She remembers, faintly, sewing lessons and late night chats spent perched on her father's bed, periodically pausing to trace the embroidery in the sheets as he fought through one coughing fit after another. A little more clearly, he remembers his mother holding him in the year after and sobbing like something wanted to break; in the end, it wasn't surprising when something did. Two decades later Dy knows a little more about smog in your lungs and a persistent matching ache in your heart, but even at eight he knew well enough that they didn't want to leave.

They should have been good grandparents, though.

That thought does still hurt. Dy cuts the song short and rests his elbows on the edge of the keyboard, pressing the heels of his hands over his eyes.

---

The house isn't much. It's impractically far from work, the size of a postage stamp, and prone to creaking threateningly if Dy so much as breaths wrong. He knew when he bought it that it wasn't worth the painstakingly saved price, but it came with a piano that the old owners didn't want to transport, and that as good as made the choice for her.

She's come to love it. If someone else lived here they might run into problems, but a piano and a bed and some tailoring supplies are about all Dy owns, so it's not like it matters if there's not room for much else. Perhaps most importantly, she's increasingly proud of her patchwork repair jobs. The pipes have to be redone constantly because she hasn't figured out how to do it properly, but she knows how to recycle materials and every time she has to patch a window frame—or, like right now, a hole in a wall—it looks less awkwardly tacked-together. Learning to do something complicated (on his own, no less!) is a novelty. It makes the place feel like Dy's. Like home.

That doesn't mean it's not lonely, but he's been used to that since Lamia. And it feels safe, which he hasn't been used to. Also since Lamia.

This is a little easier to think about when he's already banging something with a hammer, so he lets the thoughts float by. Most of his attention stays carefully trained on the feel of wood vibrating under her pale hands and the gentle draft that should, if this goes properly, vanish soon. In the back of her mind, where old mixed feelings churn, she admits that it's not entirely fair to blame Lamia. It wasn't quite a lie to introduce herself to the orphanage as a boy, but it wasn't quite the truth, either, and it may not have been Lamia's secret to tell, but they were good friends until then and she never asked anyone to come after Dy.

It wasn't Dy's fault, either, and she's the one who ended up on the streets over it, but—well. She's never been any better at people than at books.

Shaking his head, he sets the hammer down and leans all his weight on his hands against the newly patched spot, then slowly, cautiously leans away until his touch is feather-light, then gone. The board holds; wind whistles outside, but the draft is gone.

He sits back to focus on stretching his fingers and on the gentle glow of accomplishment.

---

He wakes up early for work, as always, and as always spends longer than he should debating what to wear. Winter has descended in full force, but it's going to be hot in the factory and there's nowhere to leave a coat if he wants to be sure he'll find it there later.

In the end he wears one anyway, less to stay warm on the walk and more because he's still feeling maudlin and wants something that will swish soothingly around his ankles. It's too cold for a skirt, so long coat it is, tossed over neon shorts and short sleeves in the vague hope that fewer layers will make being cooped up inside today more bearable.

Lin is already at his own station when Dy slides into place, barely in time as usual. He's greets her with a nod and a compliment to the bright blue coat. Dy beams back and launches into a lighthearted complaint about how the smog turns everything a little grey and this coat is a pain to clean but isn't it just too fun of a color to never wear? Lin nods through all of this, humming in occasional acknowledgement. He never chats much, but he doesn't raise his eyebrows at Dy's eclectic fashion ensembles and seems to actually appreciate that she'll ramble through any silence, so she figures he never chats much with anyone. Once in a while Dy even drops by his apartment, to pick up or drop off clothes to mend or tools that Lin offers to loan out. It's the closest thing she's had to a friendship in a long time.

Seeing Lin, and to a lesser extent the others who work in their room, makes the job bearable. The money was never this steady doing sex work, but he could set his schedule and never had to wonder whether it was the smog or constantly squinting at tiny parts that made his eyes hurt so much. Between them the factory hours and the commute don't leave much time for sewing, so it's harder to make any appreciable money from tailoring these days, too.

She'd wanted stability, and she's proud of this carefully-built little life, but it's not much to share. Even if she had been this settled when it really mattered, even if she somehow had another chance right now—

Her mind is determined to dwell on Aezril this week, isn't it.

After a moment Lin elbows her. When she looks up his eyebrows are furrowed slightly, and she realizes she's gone still. "You okay?" he asks, barely loud enough for her to hear. If anyone pays attention to them it will be because they've stopped working, not because they're talking, but Dy still appreciates the courtesy.

Other people's conversations wash over their sudden quiet bubble, and for a moment Dy's heart wants to crack. He wants to say Did I ever tell you—he hasn't, obviously, but that's what people say, so Did I ever tell you I had a daughter? Or—a child, maybe she's like me, but if she is I hope she knows what that is, because I don't. She's nine, somewhere. She had my eyes but I think her hair was going to be curly. I tried, but I didn't have the money, I didn't have anywhere safe for either of us. I couldn't. I couldn't. I miss her so much.

She doesn't remember the last time she said Aezril's name, and hasn't tried to explain himself since Lamia. There hasn't been anyone to explain things to since Lamia.

"I'm fine," he says, leaning back down to squint at the bits of metal he's supposed to be screwing together. "Thanks."