Myth

The radio murmured softly from the other room, some midday news segment. Outside, a car horn blared, followed by the faint, frustrated shout of a delivery guy.

Hank barely noticed.

He sat in his chair, phone pressed to his ear, mid-conversation with Elizabeth.

“You’ll let me know the moment you hear?”

It wasn’t a question.

Hank shifted, rubbing his knee with his free hand. “Yeah, Effie, soon as I know, you’ll know.”

A pause.

Not the usual kind.

The weighty kind, like she was thinking something through. Like she wanted to say more but didn’t.

Then, her voice softened slightly. “Thank you, Father. And please, give Mother my love.”

Hank exhaled, leaning his head back against the chair. “Will do.”

Another brief silence, this one not so heavy, but lingering.

“Take care of yourself,” she said. “And promise me you’ll try to rest. Worrying won’t change anything.”

Hank smirked slightly, though she couldn’t see it. Classic Effie. Always the practical one. Always had a habit of talking to him like he was some unruly schoolboy who needed instructions.

But then, softer still . . . 

“I love you, Father.”

His chest tightened-not in the way it used to when he stepped into a ring, fists up, adrenaline running hot. This was different. A slow, aching squeeze that settled in his ribs.

“Love ya too, Effie,” he murmured.

“Goodbye.”

“Bye.”

The line clicked off.

Hank set the phone down, exhaling through his nose.

He hated waiting. Always had. He was the kind of man who needed to move, needed to do. Sitting still and hoping for the best never got a man anywhere.

But this wasn’t a fight he could muscle through.

The bedroom door creaked open.

Hank glanced up just as Mary stepped out, now dressed in something more comfortable, soft slacks and a loose . . . knit sweater she always liked wearing around the house.

Her expression was set, but the slight downturn of her mouth told him she was still bothered.

“Unnecessary,” she muttered, shaking her head as she pulled at the hem of her sweater. “Whole damn trip was unnecessary.”

Hank sat back, arms crossing over his chest. “Doc don’t seem to think so, Tiger.”

Mary shot him a look.

She hated hospitals. Always had. The waiting, the tests, the smells . . . nothing good ever came out of them.

Hank had practically had to drag her there.

“You sayin’ I need a doctor to tell me how I feel?” she grumbled, as she carefully lowered herself onto the small floral sofa, next to Hank’s arm chair. “Cause I could’ve saved you the damn trouble.”

Hank sighed, shaking his head. “We’ll know soon, Tiger.”

Mary sighed, too. But hers was heavier.

“They said a few days,” she said.

“Yeah,” Hank muttered. “Few days.”

Neither of them spoke for a while.

Just the two of them, sitting. A hand naturally finding the others’.

Hank’s big, calloused palm wrapped around Mary’s smaller one, his thumb brushing absently over the back of her knuckles.

Cold.

Then, Mary’s gaze drifted across the room.

Her brows furrowed. Something was different.

“…Where are your trophies?”

Hank blinked.

She was looking at the wall display . . . the one that had once been lined with brass-plated reminders of who he used to be.

Now . . . a couple of framed photo-collages sat propped up on shelves. Shelves which had once balanced boxing trophies and belts.

Pictures of Elizabeth at different ages, different places.

Effie as a kid, grinning through a mouth full of missing teeth.

Effie at her university graduation, stiff-backed and proper in her gown.

Effie at Christmas, mid-laugh, flour on her nose from some cookie disaster.

Hank scratched the back of his neck. “Got bored of lookin’ at that old stuff,” he said, voice easy. “Rather see somethin’ that makes me happy.”

Mary didn’t turn around. “Boxing didn’t make you happy?”

Hank sighed, shifting his weight.

“Course it did. Hell, I’ll always thank it for puttin’ you in my path.” His voice softened, just a little. “But no one remembers me any more, Tiger. And the ones that do?” He let out a rough chuckle. “Nobody believes the stories they tell o’me.”

Mary turned, arms crossing loosely over her chest.

“They should,” she said.

Her voice wasn’t soft. It wasn’t weak.

Hank looked at her.

Her face was set in something firm, something knowing.

“They should believe every damn word.”

Mary settled, her fingers still laced with Hank’s, their hands resting between them, a small, steady weight, as familiar as breath.

“They should believe every damn word,” she said again, firmer this time.

Hank let out a low breath, rubbing his jaw with his free hand. “C’mon, Tiger. It was a long time ago.”

Mary shook her head. “Not long enough for people to forget.”

Hank didn’t argue, but he didn’t agree, either.

So, Mary kept going. Her eyes clouded over for a flutter as she teased up old memories.

“You were magical to watch,” she said, voice lighter now, but no less certain. “Not just strong-something else entirely. That’s why people loved you. Because you never doubted what you could do.”

Hank huffed, shaking his head. “I doubted plenty.”

Mary smiled. Not in amusement-in knowing.

“No, you didn’t,” she said simply. “Not like other people do. Not like normal people. You never questioned your own strength. You just knew.”

Hank frowned slightly, looking toward the framed photos of Elizabeth as if they might give him something else to focus on.

Mary squeezed his hand, drawing his attention back.

“That’s why you never hesitated,” she said. “You weren’t just strong, Hank-you made people believe you were strong. They could feel it. The way you carried yourself, the way you walked into a room. It was like you radiated certainty.”

She leaned forward slightly, her grip on his tightening.

“Even when you didn’t hit first,” she murmured. “You had already won. Because they believed it, too.”

Hank said nothing. He had never thought about it too hard-never needed to.

Mary’s gaze flicked to the wall, to the missing trophies.

“You could’ve hit harder,” she said.

Hank frowned slightly. “What’re you talkin’ about?”

Mary’s expression softened, but her grip on his hand remained firm.

“You never pushed past what you already knew was possible,” she said. “You never had to. You never doubted what you could do, so the world never made you prove yourself. But what if you could’ve gone further?”

She turned her head slightly, looking at the framed pictures of Elizabeth.

“Our Effie’s been researching this kind of thing for years,” she said. “Belief. Perception. What it means when someone knows something, without a shadow of a doubt. And she thinks… maybe it’s not just confidence. Maybe it’s something… deeper.”

Hank exhaled slowly.

“She told me once, about people in stories… old stories,” she said. “The ones who did things. Things… that should’ve been impossible”.

“Impossible things”? Echoed Hank.

“Yes, Hank, impossible things! Effie questioned where the old myths came from.” Mary paused for a breath. The room suddenly seemed much quieter now, almost as though the walls themselves were holding their breath.

“The stories of… prophets, and heroes.”

Hank scoffed lightly, shaking his head. “Those are miracles, Tiger. Ain’t like throwin’ a punch.”

Mary smiled again. That same knowing smile.

She squeezed his hand again.

“You could’ve hit harder,” she said after a moment. “I used to wonder if you knew that. If you ever really tested yourself.”

She didn’t let go.

Hank sat still, staring at her.

Because, he didn’t know what to say.