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Chapter 13 - The Memory Box

The night was quiet.

Only the sound of the ceiling fan hummed gently, circling above Aira's head like time itself—slow, repetitive, and impossible to stop.

The memory box sat on her desk.

She had stared at it for hours, its ribbon long untied, its contents untouched.

Until now.

She reached for it.

Her fingers trembled—but only slightly. Barely enough to be seen. Enough to be felt.

She lifted the lid.

Inside, velvet compartments cradled six items. Five from them. One from the woman who had raised her.

But she started with the one on top—the smallest.

A silver rattle, perfectly preserved.

Its surface was smooth, polished, delicate. The tag on it had yellowed with age, corners curled from time, but Elias's note was tucked beneath it like a promise written in steel.

This waited eighteen years. Welcome home, little sister.

Aira pressed her lips together.

She remembered her mentors once telling her: Elias Laurent never missed a meeting. Never lost composure. Never failed at anything.

Except this.

Except her.

She placed the rattle gently back, as if afraid the weight of her breath might tarnish its meaning.

The next item blinked softly—a sleek device, no bigger than her palm.

Curious, she clicked it open.

Light flared across her room.

A projection emerged: the Laurent estate.

It wasn't a flat image. It moved.

Rooms expanded, doors opened, sunlight streamed through windows. She saw the garden. The grand staircase. A bedroom at the end of a hall. Lavender curtains.

A voice crackled softly from the device—Cassian.

I wasn't there to protect you. But I am now. You have five shields, Aira. Use us.

Her throat tightened.

She shut the device and set it aside, heart beating faster now.

She opened the next box.

Inside, a seashell.

Faint lilac and ivory spirals. Still smelling faintly of salt.

She lifted it, cradled it in her palm, and knew without needing explanation—it had waited too.

A crumpled page lay underneath, old ink smeared slightly.

I've waited eighteen years to meet you. I hope you still like the sea.

Ronan.

He didn't need poetry. He was poetry, buried beneath sarcasm and silence.

She didn't realize she was holding her breath until she exhaled shakily, setting the shell down like a keepsake from a dream.

Then came the painting.

It stunned her.

Aira stared at it—five boys on a cliff, shadows of youth frozen in brushstrokes. One reaching toward a misty figure. Her.

There were no words until she flipped it over.

Come home. We've saved a place for you.

Lucien's voice echoed through art. Not literal. Deeper. Inescapable.

Aira's eyes stung.

She blinked, and blinked again.

No tears fell.

Not yet.

Then—last.

A hoodie.

Soft navy, frayed cuffs, faded print on the front.

She lifted it, buried her nose into it.

It smelled like warmth. Like bonfires. Like safety.

Inside the pocket, a folded star.

Her fingers unfolded it carefully.

I don't know what kind of man I've grown into without you. But I think I'd be better if you were here.

Evander.

She didn't cry.

But something inside her gave in.

Her shoulders sagged.

Her breath hitched.

She placed everything back into the box, each item exactly where it had been, as if honoring a ritual no one taught her but her heart instinctively knew.

Then she stood.

She walked to her closet.

Pulled on Evander's hoodie.

It swallowed her, heavy and oversized. She sank into it, curled onto her bed, and finally—finally—allowed her eyes to close.

She didn't weep.

But in that moment, wrapped in memories she never had, Aira Laurent finally felt what she had been too afraid to name.

Belonging.

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