The possibility terrifies me, but it doesn’t feel impossible. Nothing feels impossible anymore.
“And if that’s true,” Gray continues, “we don’t know what else he can do.”
I close my eyes, trying to process the implications. When I open them again, Gray is still watching me with that unflinching steadiness that’s always been his strength.
“I’ll keep it between us,” he says quietly. “But Bree…”
“Yeah?”
“If he was there—if he’s been in your head—then we anchor it. Right here, right now. You told me. And I’ll carry it.”
Something warm unfurls in my chest. “Just you?”
“Just me.”
The mist stirs, and for a moment, the weight of the secret feels shared instead of crushing.
“Can I tell you something I haven’t told you before?” Gray asks.
I nod, curiosity overtaking the lingering fear.
He goes quiet, his hands clasped between his knees. His gaze drops to the floor.
When he speaks, it’s more to the space between us than to me.
“A few days ago, after you touched the crown, I had this dream. Except it wasn’t a dream. It was a memory. But not mine.” His eyes meet mine, and there’s something vulnerable and terrified in them. “I was yours, Bree. Your memory of the night your mother left. I felt what you felt that night. I was at your window, banging on the glass, watching her walk away. I felt your heart breaking. I felt how alone you were.”
The violation of it hits first—someone was inside my most private moment, one of my worst memories. My breath goes tight. My throat closes. For a split second, I want to run.
But then…
“It was you,” I breathe. The fear shifts into something else. Relief, maybe. “If it had to be anyone…”
“I’m sorry,” Gray says quickly. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. I didn’t ask for it.”
“I know.” I wrap my arms around myself. “You remember everything? How it felt?”
He nods, and I see it—my childhood pain reflected back at me through his eyes. Not perfectly. Not fully. But real.
“I told you guys about that night,” I say quietly. “We were just kids. I remember crying about it to all of you.”
“You told us she left,” Gray says. “But not like that.”
His voice softens.
“Not what it felt like. Not what it did to you.”
He hesitates, then:
“I don’t think I ever understood why you kept so much in until now. Not all of it. But maybe… maybe this was part of it.”
He shifts slightly, glancing at the mist. Then back at me.
“There’s something else,” he says. “From that night. Not a memory I borrowed. Mine.”
I blink. “What do you mean?”
“When I looked out my window… there was a glow. Faint. Like fog, but not. It was around her. Your mom. Just for a second. Like the night swallowed her—but left something behind. I thought maybe I imagined it. Or maybe it was just the streetlights.”
