The man sits stiffly at the desk, a book open in front of him. He hasn't read a word. The door bursts open.
"Quinny!"
He flinches.
A boy rushes in, barely slowing before skidding to a stop beside the desk.
Calder looks about ten—too much energy for his own body, all sharp elbows and restless movement. His hair sticks up in uneven tufts, like it never stays combed for long.
His freckled face is open and familiar, his smile wide and easy, too bright for how early it is.
"You're still up here?" Calder says. "Breakfast's ready. Mom told me to get you before it gets cold."
Quinn swallows and drops his gaze to the book, pretending he's been focused on it.
"I'll be down in a minute," he says.
The words come out without thought. That unsettles him.
Calder leans closer, squinting at the page. "You're always reading," he mutters. "You already know this stuff. You helped me with my homework yesterday."
Quinn pauses, then nods. "I remember."
Calder grins. "See? That's what I said." He rocks back on his heels, hesitates, then blurts, "Hey—after breakfast, do you wanna play?"
Quinn hesitates. The word feels strange. "Play?"
"Yeah. Anything," Calder says quickly. "Cards. Outside. Or you could show me that trick again."
"What trick?" Quinn asks.
Calder laughs. "The coin one. Where it disappears. You said I'd get it someday if I kept practicing."
Quinn looks down at his hands. They look solid, stronger than he expects. The fingers are marked, the knuckles worn. The familiarity of them makes his chest tighten.
"I might be tired today," he says.
"Oh." Calder's smile falters, just briefly. Then he shrugs. "That's okay. We can do it later."
Footsteps sound downstairs. A voice calls out, sharp with impatience.
Calder turns toward the door. "Just don't take forever, okay? Mom'll get mad if you miss breakfast."
"I'll be there," Quinn says.
Calder grins again. "Okay. Hurry up, Quinny."
The boy rushes back out, his footsteps fading down the hall.
Quinn stays where he is.
He closes the book and lets out a slow breath. After a moment, he stands and crosses to the dresser, peeling off his sweat-damp clothes.
The room is quiet again.
He faces the mirror.
The man looking back at him is taller than he remembers being. Broad shoulders, a solid frame, strong without trying to be.
His hair falls to mid-length now, a dull, dusty blonde in the morning light. As he adjusts his bangs he sees thin scars marking his face—old, pale lines. The deepest cuts across the bridge of his nose.
He moves his hand and traces it once.
Tired brown eyes stare back at him.
They don't feel like his. Yet they do at the same time.
Quinn lowers his hand, turns away from the mirror, and begins to dress.