Yasin emerges from a cabin deep in the forecastle, his usual heavy, coal-stained sack and scribing case for the moment not present. "Right, need to fetch that," he says quietly, aloud but to himself, as the corridor is for the moment, empty. As he begins to move forward, his step falters, and he half-falls, catching himself against the wooden wall. He remains there for a time, leaning forward, breathing. He presses his forehead against the wood, his eyes looking down.
Several heartbeats pass by, as Yasin stands pressed to the wall, unable to move. What is that voice he hears?
"Yasin!" a young, feminine voice cries out from a distant memory. "It isn't bedtime yet!" she cries out, playfully.
"Naaji," comes Yasin's own voice, a much younger voice from years past. "I have let you stay up one hour past your normal bedtime already, and you said you would not complain." His tone is stern, commanding, but at the same time gentle.
He easily scoops up his younger sister.
"Yohannes isn't asleep yet!" the shout coming the moment he picks her up, a complaining tone as she playfully beats Yasin over his shoulders, tiny hands doing nothing to stop the muscled boy.
"Naaji," reminds Yasin, "Yohannes is washing up right now. And then one story, right Yohannes?"
"One story!" a young boy's voice is heard from another room, a shout of agreement.
"I want a story, too!" Her complaints apparently not surprising to the young Yasin.
"Alright," he recalls agreeing, a fake acquiescence to obtain agreement. A trade he knew they'd make even before the day started. "One story, then right to sleep, yes? Remember what we want mom and dad to see when they get home?"
"Everyone asleep and tucked into bed!" Naaji shouts, as if rehearsed.
"Right. So, come, no more complaining. Come on, both of you. Yohannes, now." That stern voice, again.
The memory begins to fade, Yasin walking through their family home, carrying Naaji gently and holding her tightly with both arms. He sets her into a bed and tucks her in. Fragments of the memory skip around - playful arguments over which story to read, and really, what does /one story/ mean, exactly?
Yasin lifts a thick, calloused finger to wipe at his eyes. He maintains his position there for a few more moments, taking an odd sort of comfort from the tactile sensation of the wall against his forehead. He then exhales a deep breath, moves his head away, and straightens back up. After brief roll of his shoulders, a gentle popping sound heard as his muscles release some of their tightness, he looks toward the forecastle and walks forward, a determined expression on his face.