"Papa?"
Al slowly opened his eyes. The dim light of the lamp next to him did a poor job of illuminating the small reading room tucked in a back corner of the house. A newspaper drooped lazily across his lap. HIs gaze fell upon the child standing in front of him; a tiny girl no older than four with disheveled ebony hair. Her turquoise eyes sparkled when she noticed he was awake.
"You fell asleep again!" she giggled, her head slightly cocked to the right.
Al sat up and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. Slipping into spontaneous naps was still a frequent occurrence, as if his body was still catching up from years without sleep. He carefully folded up the newspaper and placed it on a small table next to him.
"What is it, Sweet Pea?" he asked with a groggy smile as he hoisted her onto his lap.
"I visited Granny Pinako today!" she exclaimed.
"I know!" he said with a chuckle, "Did you have fun?"
If possible, the little girl's eyes lit up even more.
"Yes!" she said, "We made cookies and played outside and made paper snowflakes and read a book and Granny Pinako told me how much I took like your mommy!"
All stiffened a little as his daughter finished her sentence. He recognized that turquoise gaze from the minute he first held her.
"Oh… Did she now?" he asked.
"Mmhmm!"
Al shifted slightly in his chair.
"Papa?" she asked.
"Hm?"
"What was she like?"
A crease appeared between Al's brows.
"Who?" he asked, although he knew too well.
His daughter's piecing gaze met his own.
"Your mommy!"
Al leaned back in his chair.
"Well, your grandmother, Trisha," he began, "She was… Umm… She was…"
Al struggled for words. He could've spoken of her boundless kindness, the way she cocked her head slightly to the right and smiled when he presented her with his rudimentary alchemic creations, and her laughter that reminded him of birdsong. He remembered how she lingered in the doorway until she was certain he and Ed were asleep, and how her apron somehow always smelled like lilacs.
His daughter looked up at him expectantly. Still, the words didn't come.
All those years of long nights alone preserved each memory too carefully. For every one of her smiles, there was one of her gazing longingly out the window waiting for someone who could never return. For every moment of laughter, he was reminded of how her hand went limp in Ed's that fateful day.
"Papa?"
Al looked down at his daughter. The smile had fallen from her face. He massaged the bridge of his nose.
"Listen," he said, "I think you better ask Uncle Ed about it. He's a way better storyteller!"
The smile that followed rested upon his face like an unconvincing mask.
"Ok…" she said, the disappointment too evident in her voice.
The little girl reluctantly slid off his lap and disappeared into the dark edges of the room.
Al hung his head.
"I'm sorry, Trisha."