Chapter 91
Ellie's POV
The afternoon light filtered through my dorm window as I sat cross-legged on my bed, surrounded by scattered notes and project documentation for Sophia's booking system. Two weeks until finals. Two weeks to balance coursework, the Martinez project proposal, and somehow not lose my mind in the process.
My phone buzzed with Dad's ringtone, and I smiled reflexively. Video call—which meant he probably wanted to show me something.
"Hey Dad!" I answered, angling the camera so the afternoon light wouldn't wash out my face.
Dad's face filled the screen, and the sheer joy radiating from his expression made my chest warm. Behind him, I could see his workshop—the tool racks gleaming under overhead lights, freshly organized. But what immediately caught my attention was the object in his hands.
A walking stick. Beautifully carved, the wood grain catching the light like liquid amber. And running along its length—wolves. A pack of them, their bodies flowing across the surface in mid-run, muscles rendered with such precision I could almost see them breathe. At the crown, an amber stone glowed warm as honey.
"Ellie, sweetheart!" Dad's voice cracked slightly, his eyes suspiciously bright. "It arrived this morning. I've been staring at it for three hours."
Mom appeared beside him, her hand resting gently on his shoulder. "Your father's been like a kid on Christmas," she said, her tone affectionate. "He won't stop talking about the craftsmanship."
"It's beautiful," I managed, watching Dad turn the staff slowly, examining every carved detail with a craftsman's appreciation.
"Beautiful doesn't even begin to cover it." Dad traced one of the wolves with his thumb, reverent. "Ellie, the detail work here—I've never seen anything like this. The way he captured the movement, the muscle definition, the way the pack flows together..." He looked up at the camera. "This must have cost a fortune. Honey, you shouldn't have spent so much."
"It wasn't that expensive," I lied, hoping my voice sounded convincing. In truth, I had no idea what the walking stick was worth, but given Don Miguel's reputation, probably more than my entire semester's tuition.
Mom leaned closer to the camera. "Are you eating properly? You look a little thin."
"Every day, Mom. I promise."
"Good." Mom's expression softened. "And make sure you're getting enough sleep. Finals are coming up, but your health comes first."
Dad shifted the walking stick, examining the amber stone at the crown. "This piece here—I've never seen this quality of amber. It's Baltic, I think. Maybe even fossilized." His voice grew more animated. "And look at how he integrated it into the design. It's not just decorative—it's structural. The whole piece balances perfectly."
I watched him, warmth spreading through my chest. This was Dad in his element—analyzing craft, appreciating skill, understanding the hours of work that went into creating something beautiful and functional.
"I need to thank him," Dad said suddenly, looking directly at the camera. "Properly. In person. This kind of gift—this level of thought and care—it deserves more than a phone call or email."
My stomach dropped. "Dad, Don Miguel is based in Europe. He travels a lot for his work. I'm not even sure when he'll be in the States again—"
"Then I'll wait." Dad's tone held that familiar Green family stubbornness I'd inherited in full measure. "Or I'll go to Europe if I have to. Ellie, a man who puts this kind of heart into a gift—who understands the symbolism of wolves running together, of family bonds, of protection—he deserves to be thanked face to face."
"David," Mom interjected gently, "maybe we shouldn't pressure Ellie to arrange something so complicated. I'm sure Mr. Miguel knows how grateful we are."
But Dad shook his head. "It's a matter of respect, Sarah. This isn't just a gift—it's a statement. About values, about understanding what matters." He looked back at me. "Honey, can you ask Jackson? See if there's any way to arrange a meeting? Even a video call would be better than nothing."
I bit my lip, already mentally composing a text to Jackson. Hey, so my dad is determined to personally thank your elderly master craftsman. Help?
"I'll ask," I promised. "But Dad, Don Miguel is pretty reclusive. He might not be available."
"Just try." Dad's expression softened. "Please? It would mean a lot to me."
How could I say no to that?
"Okay. I'll talk to Jackson and see what we can arrange."
Mom smiled. "That's our girl. Now tell us about school. How are your classes going? Are you staying on top of everything?"
We spent the next twenty minutes in comfortable conversation—me updating them on coursework, them sharing neighborhood gossip from Mapleton. Dad showed me his latest project (a custom bookshelf for the local library), and Mom told me about the community garden expansion she was planning.
Normal. Warm. Home.
When we finally hung up, I sat holding my phone, staring at Dad's last text: Love you, sweetheart. So proud of you.
The walking stick image he'd attached showed the amber stone catching sunlight, the carved wolves seeming to move across the wood grain.
Jackson's family friend did this, I thought. Not just expensive—personal.
The thoughtfulness of it made my chest ache.
Thalia stirred, content. Good pack. Honors family bonds.
They're not our pack, I reminded her. Jackson's family. Not ours.
Yet, Thalia murmured, and I didn't have the energy to argue.
I typed out a message to Jackson: Dad got the walking stick. He loves it. But now he's insisting on thanking Don Miguel in person. Any chance that's possible?
The response came almost immediately: Figured this might happen. Don Miguel probably won't make it to the US this year—too many commitments. But maybe we can arrange a video call? I'll ask.
Relief washed over me. That would be perfect. Thank you.
Anything for you, Ellie.
The intimacy of it still made my pulse quicken, even now.
I set my phone aside and stood, suddenly aware of how empty the dorm room felt. Where was everyone?