Wexley stood in the narrow hallway outside the counselor's office, one hand resting on the doorframe, the other clenched tight around the folded appointment slip. Through the frosted glass, he could make out the familiar silhouette—broad shoulders, a thoughtful tilt of the head—and the low, steady voice speaking to someone on the phone.
He wished he felt calmer. He wished, after all this time, that he knew what he was doing.
The door opened with a soft click.
"Come in," said the counselor. His voice was warm but matter-of-fact, the same as it had been since they were boys themselves.
Wexley stepped inside, dropping into one of the chairs across the desk. He didn't bother with pleasantries.
"Any progress?" he asked, his tone clipped with impatience he didn't quite bother to hide.
The counselor—Eamon—rubbed a hand over his stubble. He leaned back, studying him with the same frank scrutiny he'd used on Wexley for decades.
"Wex," he said evenly, "I know how much effort you've poured into this boy since you took him in three years ago. But…"
Wexley let out a low breath. "He's still not speaking, then?"
Eamon's expression shifted—regret, maybe. Or the nearest thing to it.
"No," he admitted. "Not yet."
Wexley closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"But," Eamon went on gently, "he's started responding when I speak. He makes eye contact more often. That's progress."
"Progress," Wexley repeated under his breath, like the word tasted bitter.
"I don't know what I'm doing," he said finally, voice rough. "He used to be such an active boy. If she were here, if Elira—"
Eamon cut him off, not unkindly. "But she's not."
The words landed between them, blunt and heavy.
"He watched her die, Wex," Eamon continued. "You of all people should understand how that feels. So stop sitting here moping over the ifs. Go be the father that boy deserves."
Wexley's mouth twisted. "It's not been easy."
"No one said it would be."
"There isn't exactly a handbook titled How to Take Care of a Boy Who Watched His Mother Die for Dummies."
Eamon snorted. "Glad we agree you're a dummy."
Wexley shot him a look.
"Look," Eamon went on, voice softer. "I watched you pine after Elira Wells since the day she walked into this town. And now I'm watching you try to be a father while you're still grieving her yourself. That's why I cut my fee in half for you. Just… give him time."
Wexley didn't argue. He couldn't.
⸻
Outside the counselor's office, Damian sat on the low brick wall near the schoolyard, coat zipped up to his chin.
He watched the boys playing soccer—shouting, laughing, colliding into each other without thinking. The ball skidded across the grass, coming to a stop against his boot.
He stared at it.
For a moment, he simply watched the scuffed leather, as though unsure it was meant for him.
Then he bent down and picked it up.
A boy his age jogged over, hair sticking to his forehead.
"Hey—thanks," he said, holding out a hand. "Can I have my ball back?"
Damian looked up. Looked at the boy. Then back down at the ball in his palms.
The boy, noticing Damian's hesitation, asked, "You wanna come play?"
Before he could decide what to do, another figure approached—taller, older by a few years, the same sharp cheekbones and narrow eyes.
"What are you doing?" the older boy demanded, voice cold.
The younger one blinked. "I was just—"
"Don't talk to him," the older one snapped, grabbing his brother's arm. "Don't you know he's the weirdo? He doesn't talk. Stay away from him."
He snatched the ball from Damian's hands. The force of it knocked Damian back a step.
"Stay away from my brother."
The words were flat. Final.
He turned and dragged the younger boy away.
Damian stood there and watched the game continue without him.
⸻
Back inside, Wexley rubbed a tired hand across his brow.
"Has he… made any friends?" Eamon asked, voice low.
Wexley sighed. "Other than the twins, no. He doesn't really play with them. He just… sits nearby. Watches."
Eamon nodded.
"But," Wexley added, as though remembering something faintly hopeful, "he seems interested in soccer. Sometimes he'll stand there for ages, just… watching."
"That's good," Eamon said, straightening.
"Is it?" Wexley asked.
Eamon's mouth curved in a small smile. "Sure. We can work with that."
"Work with it how?"
"Push him to join the school team."
Wexley stared. "He barely even looks people in the eye. You think he's going to sign up to play in front of them?"
"I think," Eamon said calmly, "that a boy who hasn't spoken in three years but still bothers to watch other kids play—wants to belong. Even if he doesn't know how to say it."
"And if he refuses?"
"Then he refuses. But you try anyway. You don't let him drift any further into that lonely abyss."
Wexley closed his eyes again. He imagined Elira—face flushed, hair tumbling loose—the way she'd have laughed when she caught Damian kicking a ball down the old garden path when he thought everyone else was asleep.
He swallowed hard.
"All right," he murmured. "I'll try."
⸻
School let out in a slow tide of voices and footsteps.
Calla and Cain were the first to appear, jostling each other on the front steps, their backpacks slung carelessly over their shoulders.
Damian followed a few paces behind them, hands tucked in his pockets, gaze fixed on the concrete. He didn't rush to catch up, but he didn't linger, either—he simply moved in their wake, as he always did.
Wexley stood by the car, watching.
When they reached him, Calla and Cain immediately launched into overlapping stories about the day—Calla's triumph at spelling, Cain's insistence that he could run faster than anyone in his class.
Wexley bent to ruffle Cain's hair, then helped them each climb into the back seat.
He turned to Damian last.
There was no need to say anything. Wexley simply held the door open.
Damian slipped inside without a word and buckled himself in.
⸻
The drive home was filled with the twins' chatter.
They took turns recounting every detail—who had gotten in trouble, what the lunch had tasted like, how Cain was absolutely sure he was "basically the fastest kid ever."
Every so often, one of them would twist around to look at Damian.
"Did you see how Tommy fell off his chair?" Calla demanded once, grinning.
Damian nodded.
They went back to their lively debate—Calla insisting she'd be a faster runner than Cain, Cain protesting that she doesn't even like running.
In the passenger seat, Wexley kept his eyes on the road.
But once—just once—he glanced into the rearview mirror.
And when he did, he saw Damian watching the twins with a look that was almost soft, almost curious.
Wexley let out a slow, quiet breath.
One step at a time, he thought.
⸻
When they got home, the sun was sliding behind the chimneys across the lane, painting Mara's small house in gold and lavender.
The moment they stepped through the door, Calla and Cain called out, "We're home!" and vanished up the stairs, their footsteps a familiar thunder.
Damian lingered in the entryway just long enough to lift one hand in a small wave. Mara, coming in from the kitchen, smiled softly and brushed his shoulder in passing.
He followed the twins up the creaking stairs.
His room was at the end of the narrow hall, opposite theirs. It had once been Mara's sewing room. Now it held a narrow bed tucked beneath the eave, a dresser with mismatched knobs, and a low shelf lined with books and small, careful arrangements: a feather, a smooth stone, a folded scrap of paper. A lamp on the bedside table cast a warm pool of light over the covers.
There were no posters or trophies. No clutter. Just the sense that everything had been placed deliberately, as if order was the only defense against the chaos that had come before.
On the windowsill sat a stack of unopened letters, bound with a thin length of string. The top envelope was worn soft at the corners.
⸻
Dinner was quiet at first, aside from the clink of cutlery.
Mara had made a lentil stew with bread, and the smell filled the kitchen in a comforting way that made the day feel a little less heavy.
Halfway through, Wexley cleared his throat.
"Damian," he said carefully, "I was wondering… if you'd like to try out for the school soccer team."
Damian paused mid-bite, spoon hovering above the bowl.
All at once, it felt as though everyone was watching him—four pairs of eyes waiting for a response he didn't know how to give.
Before he could decide, Cain blurted, "Can I join too?"
Mara smiled faintly. "Of course you can, sweetheart."
Cain's face lit up. "Really? Calla, did you hear that?"
"I heard," Calla said loftily, "and I think I should get to join too."
"You don't even like soccer!" Cain protested.
"Doesn't matter. You're not the boss of me."
"I'm older by two minutes!"
"That doesn't count!"
Calla flicked a crumb at her brother. Cain retaliated by nudging her elbow, which led to an immediate squabble.
"That's enough," Mara said firmly, her voice steady. "Sit up straight and finish your meals."
They froze mid-bicker, exchanged one last glare, and dutifully returned to their stew.
Wexley, however, was still watching Damian.
But Damian had gone back to his dinner, head lowered.
Wexley sighed under his breath and turned back to his plate.
⸻
After the dishes were washed and the twins thumped off to bed, the house settled into the hush of late evening.
Wexley slouched in his chair, rubbing a hand over his jaw.
Mara glanced up from where she was wiping crumbs off the table.
"Maybe," she said gently, "you should talk to him privately. Ask again."
Wexley's head came up.
"You think so?"
"He hates feeling cornered," she reminded him.
He hesitated. Then, with a sudden burst of determination, he got to his feet, leaned over, and pressed a quick, grateful kiss to her cheek.
Mara startled. "Wex—"
But he was already halfway up the stairs.
⸻
He found Damian in his room, standing at the small sink, toothbrush in hand.
While he waited, Wexley's gaze drifted to the letters.
He picked up the first one carefully. Though it remained sealed, the paper was worn soft at the corners, bent and smoothed again and again.
When he looked up, Damian was standing behind him.
"I see you still haven't opened any of these."
Damian didn't look away.
"It's alright," Wexley said quietly. "Sometimes… it's easier to pretend words don't exist."
He helped Damian put away his toothbrush and towel, settling into the small, familiar motions.
"I worry," he said, voice low. "That I'm failing you. That you'll think I was just… some man trying to replace your mother."
He reached out, brushing a bit of lint from Damian's sleeve.
"I'm not," he said. "But I want to be something good for you."
Damian watched him steadily.
"Come on," Wexley said softly. "Let's get you into bed."
⸻
Once Damian was settled beneath the covers, Wexley sat at the edge of the narrow mattress.
"I asked you earlier about soccer," he began. "I know it was a lot. But I thought… maybe it would help. To feel part of something again."
He waited.
Damian didn't move at first.
Then, slowly, he lifted his gaze and met Wexley's eyes.
For a moment, it seemed he might look away again.
But instead, he gave a small, careful nod—and his hand tightened on the blanket, just once.
Wexley felt something loosen in his chest—something that had been wound tight for years.
"All right," he said quietly, unable to keep the relief from his voice. "We'll start there."
⸻
The tryouts were held on a broad field tucked behind the school, Bright pennants snapped along the sidelines. A few parents watched from folding chairs, murmuring among themselves.
Cain was nearly vibrating with excitement as they arrived. He swung their joined hands between them in wild arcs, practically dragging Damian in his eagerness.
"Look—look at all the people here," Cain breathed, pointing. "They've already set up the cones. We'll get to do passing drills, I heard. And they let you try the scrimmage even if you're not on a team yet!"
Damian didn't answer, but he wasn't staring at the ground as usual. His eyes moved slowly across the field—taking in the bright shirts, the coaches with clipboards, the groups of boys tossing balls back and forth while they waited.
It was the most alert Cain had ever seen him.
The coaches, three men in neat blue tunics with brass buttons at the collar, gathered everyone in a loose semicircle.
"All right, lads," called the tallest, a barrel-chested man with a clipped gray beard. "Welcome to fall tryouts. We'll be running you through mixed-team drills today—some of you will pair up with current players, some with other candidates. We'll be rotating groups every thirty minutes. That means we're watching not just your skills but how you work with different teammates. Understood?"
A chorus of nods and quiet assent.
The man swept his gaze over the group.
"Remember—skill alone doesn't make a player worth the uniform." He continued.
Cain grinned and elbowed Damian gently. Damian's expression didn't change, but he glanced down at Cain's hand, then back to the field.
"Right—let's sort you," the coach announced, consulting his list.
As names were called, boys shuffled into two lines.
"Cain Winslow," he called.
Cain's hand shot up. "Here!"
"You're with Team A—red bibs."
Cain flashed Damian an eager thumbs-up before bounding off to collect his red practice shirt.
"Damian Wells," the coach called next.
Damian stepped forward silently.
"You'll be on Team B—green bibs."
As he moved to collect the green shirt, he felt a stare prick the side of his face.
In front of Team A stood the older boy he'd seen before—the one who'd glared when he retrieved their ball.The boy's lip curled in silent contempt. He leaned toward a thick-shouldered teammate and jerked his chin in Damian's direction.
"That's him," Damian heard him mutter. "The little bastard who took our ball. He's such a freak."
The teammate snickered.
Cain turned just then, his expression bright—until he saw them. His smile dropped. He planted himself between Damian and the older boy, scowling with all the ferocity a small frame could muster.
"Hey," Cain snapped, "don't call him that. You're the freak!"
The older boy just raised a brow, unimpressed.
Before anyone could retort, a boy in a green bib—slightly younger, with the same sharp nose—slipped around the others and came up beside Damian.
"Um—hi," he said quickly, as though worried he'd be stopped. "I'm Aaron. We're on the same team. We've met before? When I came to get my ball the other day?"
Damian looked at him blankly.
"My brother's Roland," the boy added, voice dropping. "He's—" He hesitated, flicking his gaze toward the scowling older boy. "—not the best, but he's not that bad when you get to know him."
As he said that, he looked towards his older brother who was still glaring at Damian.
Damian just watched him, silent.
"Sorry." He said, scratching the back of his neck.
Aaron shifted, clearly wanting to say more, but a whistle blew sharp across the field.
"First scrimmage! Teams to your sides!"
Damian slipped the green bib over his head.
⸻
The match began awkwardly.
Damian hovered a little behind the others, unsure where to stand. Twice he passed the ball only to have it stolen immediately. Once he tripped over his own feet and landed hard on one knee.
But as the minutes ticked by, something in him began to ease.
The scuffed ball came rolling toward him again and trapped it underfoot almost without thinking. And this time, instead of passing too quickly, he kept it. Felt its weight. Felt the way the grass slid beneath his boots.
He looked up.
The field stretched ahead. Empty spaces opened ahead.
His heart thumped.
And he ran.
Not the hesitant shuffle he'd started with, but a clean, sudden sprint, weaving past the boy who lunged for the ball. A startled yell went up behind him, but he was already moving past the second defender.
He didn't think.
He didn't hear the whistles or the shouts.
He just ran, and when the glaring boy, Roland's team closed in, he pivoted neatly, found the gap, and kicked.
The ball smacked into the net, a clean, echoing sound that made something lift in his chest.
Gasps and scattered cheers rose along the sideline.
He froze, blinking, half expecting someone to call him back.
Instead, the coach gave a single, sharp nod. "Well done!"
Cain whooped from across the field.
Color bloomed high in Damian's cheeks.
And for the first time anyone could remember, a small, shy smile crept across his face.
⸻
He scored again. Then a third time. This time right past Roland's feet.
His face twisted in fury.
When the whistle blew at last, the boys were flushed and winded. The coaches clapped them on the shoulders.
"Locker room," called the gray-bearded coach. "Wash up, then come see us out front."
Cain jogged to Damian's side as they headed in.
"You were amazing!" he gushed. "Did you see them? You should've seen their faces when you scored! And I got two goals, did you see?"
Damian looked down, but his lips parted, like he almost might answer.
Cain beamed and darted off to the showers, promising to be quick.
The locker room smelled of grass and sweat, the air thick with steam drifting off the showers. Boys trailed in, red-faced and winded, dropping bibs on benches and peeling off their damp shirts.
Damian pulled his own over his head and reached up to adjust the pendant on its thin chain—a small, familiar weight against his chest.
He didn't hear them approach until a low voice came behind him:
"Didn't take long for you to start showing off, did it?"
Damian froze, shirt clutched in his hand.
Roland stood with three boys flanking him. His face was flushed, not just from exertion—something sharper burned behind his eyes.
"Look at you," Roland went on, voice pitched just above a whisper. "Silent all the time, and then you think you're some hero out there."
He glanced over his shoulder, as if making sure the others were listening.
"My dad says you've got something wrong in your head," he added, mouth twisting. "That your mum was just some attention seeking whore."
Damian's jaw tightened, but he didn't look away.
One of the other boys shifted uneasily, staring at the floor.
"I saw the way the coach looked at you," Roland continued. "Like you're special. Like everyone should feel sorry for you. You think just 'cause you don't talk, you're better than the rest of us?"
He stepped closer, crowding into Damian's space. Damian had to tip his chin up to meet his eyes.
"You're not," he said, softer now. "You're nothing."
His gaze dropped to the pendant.
"What's this?" he asked, reaching for it.
Damian's hand flew up to cover the chain, but Roland was faster. Fingers closed around the necklace, yanking it so hard the thin silver links snapped.
Damian lunged, catching the broken chain before it fell to the tiles.
Roland rocked back a step, studying the small silver shape in his palm.
"Is this her?" he asked, voice bright with mock curiosity. "You wear her ashes like some sad little pet collar?"
A hush rippled through the locker room.
"Hey," Aaron blurted suddenly, voice cracking. "Leave him alone, Roland."
Roland ignored him. He turned the pendant over in his fingers.
"You think this makes you special? You think it excuses you showing me up out there?"
His voice rose, brittle with something that sounded like genuine hurt.
"I've been playing since I was six. I'm supposed to be captain next year. But everyone's talking about you."
Damian's breath came faster. He reached for the pendant.
Roland jerked it back, eyes glittering.
"Say something, then," he snapped. "Go on. You want this back so bad? Tell me."
Damian's lips parted, but no sound came.
"Pathetic," Roland spat. "Can't even open your mouth."
Cain's voice tore across the aisle.
"Hey!"
He pushed between them, cheeks flaming.
"Give it back!"
Roland just stared at him.
"Stay out of it, Cain," he said flatly. "This doesn't concern you."
Cain planted his feet. "It does now."
Roland's hand tightened on the pendant.
"You think I care if he hits me?" he said, voice low. "He can't even talk. He's nothing but a ghost."
Aaron stepped in beside Cain, voice shaking.
"Roland, p—please just give it back."
Roland didn't look at him. He lifted the pendant higher, as though about to toss it.
"You want it so bad?" he sneered. "Here—"
The pendant swung once more—
—his body moved before his mind could catch up.
He struck. Harder than anyone expected. Harder than he should have been able to, and caught Roland clean across the jaw.
The older boy staggered back, crashing into the lockers.
Metal rattled.
Then Roland slid to the floor, his head striking the bench with a dull thud.
A smear of red blossomed across the wood.
Roland's eyes fluttered, unfocused, and a thin line of blood slipped down his cheek.
Gasps echoed.
For one breathless moment, no one moved.
Damian stood over him, chest heaving, the broken pendant chain dangling from his clenched fist.
Roland's friends stumbled back, faces pale. For a heartbeat, no one seemed to know what to do.
Then one of them ran out the door, yelling for the coaches.
Cain was the first to move. He shoved past the others and caught Damian's wrist in a hard grip.
"Damian," he hissed, voice tight. "Hey—look at me."
Damian didn't move. His gaze was locked on Roland's crumpled body, breath coming in ragged gasps.
But he wasn't seeing just the blood.
A shape had formed beside the boy.
Not the same reaper he'd met before. This one was smaller, almost childlike in size. It looked like a bear. When it leaned closer to Roland, something about it shimmered and blurred.
No.
Damian's pulse roared in his ears. He shook his head, once, twice, trying to clear it. But the reaper only tilted its head in his direction, as if curious.
Then it lifted a stubby paw and gave Roland's hair a clumsy pat, the way a child tries to comfort a pet.
No—don't. Please don't take him.
His hands trembled.
Aaron edged closer, pressing his hand to Roland's shoulder.
"He's…he's bleeding," he said, voice thin with panic.
Outside, heavy footsteps thundered closer.
"Damian." Cain's grip tightened. He gave Damian's arm a small, quick shake. "You have to snap out of it. Look at me."
The reaper's head turned back to Roland just as a faint groan escaped the boy's throat.
It went very still, as if weighing whether it needed to stay.
"Damian!"
Cain set his jaw, frustration and worry knotting in his chest. He let go of Damian's wrist and instead grabbed the front of his shirt in both fists.
"He's gonna be okay. You hear me? But you have to breathe. Right now."
Damian tore his gaze from the reaper and looked at Cain, blinking like he was trying to clear the vision away.
The coaches burst in, faces set and grim.
"What happened?" demanded the gray-bearded man, sweeping the room with his gaze.
No one spoke.
Then Aaron lifted his head.
"They were—they were bullying him," he stammered. "They took his necklace. And Damian—he hit him."
The coach's gaze flicked to Damian.
He hesitated.
Just for a moment.
His brow furrowed slightly, like the math wasn't adding up. Like he couldn't quite picture this quiet, pale boy—the smallest in the room—being the one who'd knocked Roland out cold.
Cain's hand was still fisted in Damian's shirt, anchoring him.
"He didn't mean…he was just—"
The coach knelt by Roland, checking his pulse.
"Call for help," he said to the nearest boy, who bolted for the office phone.
The second coach stepped up to Damian, hands spread in a calming gesture.
"Son," he said carefully, voice low and even. "I need you to take a breath. And I'm going to have to hold onto that chain for now, all right?"
Damian clutched the pendant tighter, pressing it flat against his chest.
"Can you give it to me?" the coach asked gently, extending his palm.
Damian's head moved, just barely, but it was a clear, rigid shake.
"Come on," the coach coaxed. "I promise I'll keep it safe. Just let go."
Damian's jaw locked. His fingers stayed white-knuckled around the pendant.
The coach's hand hovered closer. "I understand you're upset," his voice firmer now. "But you have to give that to me—"
"No," Cain burst out, stepping forward. His voice came out higher than he meant, but he didn't care. "Please…don't take it. It—it's important."
The coach looked over, brows knitting. "Winslow, I know you're trying to help, but—"
"It's his mum," Cain blurted, his own throat tightening. "That necklace—it's got her ashes in it. Please."
The locker room went silent.
The coach's outstretched hand froze. He studied Damian's face, how he held the pendant to his chest like it was keeping him standing.
A long breath shuddered out of the man. Slowly, he lowered his hand.
"All right," he said, quieter now. "All right. You can keep it."
Damian didn't lift his gaze, but his shoulders eased by a fraction.
"You just… stay here a minute," the coach murmured. "Everything's going to be all right."
Damian didn't look convinced. He stood there, pale and silent, as Roland groaned—and the small bear-shaped reaper dissolved into nothing.