Monthly Bonus Content #1: 'Grief Comes in Waves' (Sofia Version) (Patreon)

[Alternate Text: A top-down view of the waves crashing to shore that is vast enough to show the different colors of the sea from foamy white to deep blue. The title, 'Grief Comes in Waves', is right-adjusted in a wavy font with 'Sofia' typed beneath it.]

Another streak of cobalt blue is added to the eddying waters that surround the lonely island meant to serve as the focal point, but it's steadily losing ground. The river seems to be rising with each rough addition of pastel Sofia is layering on. The forgotten dock she carefully penciled in is now lost, swallowed up by frantic swipes of blue and gray; it's not at all balanced.

Her mom always encourages her to freely create and feel without a set idea or fixed composition in mind, but she is only destroying.

Maybe that's what she needs…

Sofia frowns down at her drawing, sighing softly as she glances at the old illustration in the nearby fantasy novel she is reading. There is no comparison; she turned a hidden haven for water spirits and those select few humans they once trusted into a hell. An Atlantis on a much less epic scale that is dark when contrasted with the sun-dappled waters, bobbing row boats, and happy, thriving island in the book.

While she wasn't trying to recreate the image, she is aware of the stark differences between them. The pages of the novel are well-used with a broken-in spine since she was borrowing the book from a friend, though it's now impossible to properly return it to Mr. [Surname]. More cobalt is thickly layered onto the paper as soon as that bleak conclusion crosses her mind, line after line, until most of the shore is eaten up, but it doesn't stop there.

Turning the rectangular, pastel wedge on its side allows for a broader stroke as it drags across the landscape, recoloring it into a murky sea with only the suggestion of sunken land. It's only when the tips of her fingers graze the soft, packed-on pigment that she stops the repetitive, swiping motion. Caked-on pastel resides beneath her short nails, staining her hands too.

Sofia only borrowed the book for her artwork, which wasn't an easy feat with how much Mr. [Surname] treasured his library and privacy.

She doesn't ever want to finish this piece.

It was supposed to be a gift.

Sofia startles when her personal telephone rings, knocking some of her selected colors from the desk so the blue and gray wedges fall like heavy rain to the floor. At least pastels aren't very delicate. She picks up the phone with her left hand to spare it from stains. "Mom?"

"Yes, it's me."

"Are you okay?" Sofia asks with some measure of concern since they are in the same house and she typically talks to her in person. If her mom fell somewhere, she wouldn't be calling, but shouting. She pushes her chair back, rising from it to stretch out the crick setting into her lower back from staying bent over the workspace rather than resting before her night shift; it's late.

"Yes, we have a new arrival, so I need you…"

"Who?" She immediately asks the question despite having an idea of its answer; you're back. Sofia distractedly wipes her hand on a nearby cloth, grimacing briefly at how the color isn't entirely coming off, but it is dulling. She's essentially in comfy loungewear while drawing, and now, there is company. "Is it—?"

"A very special guest."

Sofia detects the gentle admonishment to her mom's tone; she isn't about to say your name aloud when you're standing in front of her. That would be impolite. She knows the town is probably not going to be overly welcoming, if not tempted to gossip about a returning visitor, so does her mother. "Do you need me right now?"

"Yes, hun, now, please."

"Okay, sure," Sofia mumbles. It's not like there was an alternative answer, but she feels a little blindsided by your late night arrival when she thought it was going to be earlier. Maybe she is lucky her mom was still awake to see you first. There isn't enough time to find a proper T-shirt or fuss with her style; those things don't matter.

She hangs up the phone, scooping up her denim jacket and shrugging it on, though she hesitates by the book that remains open to an idyllic scene. Your return won't be a happy one. How can it be when another family member has been lost? Sofia picks up the book with more care than needed, gentle with its worn leather and aged stitching that occasionally creaks as each page is turned. Maybe with more time and closure, she can give it back to a [Surname].

Quick steps guide her out of her room and down one of the many halls; they are a touch eager, fueled by her own brimming curiosity. Sofia has the presence of mind to slow down towards the end, lengthening out her gait as she rounds a corner to see the makeshift lobby area, except her attention hones in on you despite her better judgment to play it neutral. Mr. [Surname] found it hard to talk about you at times, but he would sometimes wonder or pose what-ifs that no one could really answer, but Sofia listened.

She always listened.

Some questions are better left unanswered.

"What exactly qualifies as 'special'?"

Her question carries down the hallway, turning the heads of those gathered. Sofia's focus barely rests on her mother, returning to you within a fraction of a second. She schools her expression when your eyes finally meet, unsure how to proceed after the years apart, though it doesn't come easily.

There is nothing neutral about the past…