Your moleman father puts his book down and crawls up from his ancient stool. He paces around the cave.

“I may spend all my time underground, but I’m not blind,” he says. “I know the surface world is nice. I hear their hot tubs aren’t traps set by lava beasts. Sure, my cave is a dump. But it’s my home dump. Always has been, always will be. And it’ll always be here for you, too. And… so will I.”

You extend your claws out. He looks at them, then lightly clanks his claws against yours, a weird sign of respect among moles. 

“I hate that pattern you carved in your fur,” he adds, ruining the moment.

THE END

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