The exact same shade as his father’s.
“Yannis...”
My voice came out softer than I intended.
It cracked slightly around his name.
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” I said quickly, moving instinctively toward him.
My hands hovered for a second — unsure whether to touch him or give him space.
“You startled me.”
He stayed still. Watching. Measuring.
His eyes were locked onto my face like he was trying to confirm that I wasn’t a projection of memory or a dream that would dissolve if he blinked.
There was relief there.
But it was tangled with doubt.
“The bad dreams came back,” he signed.
His hands moved smoothly — practiced, precise.
My chest caved inward at his words.
Bad dreams.
Plural.
That meant they weren’t random.
They were recurring.
I stepped closer and gently guided him toward the small two-seater loveseat positioned by the window.
He followed without resistance.
We sat down side by side.
Close enough that our knees almost touched.
Close enough that I could feel the warmth of his presence.
“Your dad told me you’ve stopped going outside to play,” I said carefully.
“Struggling at school. Keeping to yourself.”
He shifted slightly.
His jaw tightened — a habit he had inherited from Ruslan.
His fingers flexed once before he signed.
“You left me.”
The accusation came suddenly.
