Table by Draggar ♥.
The two wooden structures were a sight for sore eyes. With some hesitation, she let her mind return to the last time she had been here. It had been the night of the dramatic argument that had escalated into the estrangement between herself and Jefferson. She felt that by returning here, she might be coming full circle. But she didn't know where that circle would end, per se, or if it would overlap with old experiences. Some part of her was just as afraid as it was relieved. Would returning here mean a return to the problems between her and Jefferson? Would it mean they would fight, but this time behind closed doors? She cast a sideways glance at her son. Our son, she amended.
She hadn't just come here for herself. She had come here so that her son might know a fuller life. As much as she had loved their time together, she knew that she could not keep him to herself. He needed room to expand and to grow. He needed other creatures around him, so that he could figure out what he wanted out of life, and what kind of creature he wanted to become. She would not rob him of those experience just because of her own unspoken fears.
"Yes, your father lives in the ranch," Geneva said, her mind constructing an invisible map of the inside. She knew that just inside the door they would find the rough, homespun rug in front of the rustic fireplace. And just to the side of that, the rocking chair where Jefferson often spent his down time. How many hours had they spent together in front of that fireplace? Would they ever spend time there with Pripyat? Thinking of the joy that had accompanied those times, she decided that she would find a way to cobble together the errant parts of their separate lives into the whole of a family unit. "Your father will be able to smell us," she said, touching her nose to Pripyat's. The Whilom did not have a working sense of smell, and so she had found it difficult to educate her son about how to use such an important tool. "Do you want to go inside?"
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