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to keep their young ones close to home.

Then Mother Fate gave it to a pup with silver eyes,

who broke a boy’s nose to defend it

and wore it like a crown no one else could see.

Cassiopeia was a vain queen once.

They chained her to the sky for her pride.

Now every lost traveler finds his way home by her light,

and no one remembers the chains.

Last night, I told you to stop living up to your namesake.

I lied.

You never lived up to her.

You outshine her.

The stars don’t care who wore their names first.

They only care who burns brightest.

In the oldest tongue, Aya means a sign,

a wonder sent down from the heavens.

I never needed the old tongue to know it.

I knew it the first time I said your name out loud,

and I’ll know it the last time.

When I’m old, and my wings won’t carry me anymore,

I’ll still be saying it to the sky,

so the stars remember whose name it is.

Aya.

My Aya.

The only name I bring to Mother Fate when I pray.

I lower the paper. A tear runs down Aya’s cheek. She can smell the truth on me. I meant every word, and so did my dragon.

Aya sniffles and closes her eyes. She balls her hands into fists. I hurt her so bad. A poem isn’t enough, and I know that. But she still has the strength to choose to forgive me. I won’t take it for granted.

“That was beautiful,” she whispers.

I rise to my feet without caring who sees. I know my parents are out on their porch. Dominic and Hazel are watching from the front window. Valek and Aunt Kenya stand at their rail. Uncle Sam and Aunt Lauren don’t even pretend to look away.

I take slow steps toward Aya and put my hands on her arms. She moves in and leans into my chest. She’s trembling when I wrap her up.