It didn’t look like a bedroom meant to impress. It looked like a cozy getaway, and I already loved it in the few seconds I got to stand there.
It reminded me of freedom, or at least what I thought it felt like.
And standing here, wrapped in a blanket, I felt something tug at me, that same sense of familiarity I couldn’t place. Like I’d slept in a room this color once but couldn’t place it.
My room before Lockswell had been cream. I remember that. Cream and filled with toys and a few books glowing in the dark stars on the ceiling.
Taking the room in, I didn’t notice right away when Evander came out of the closet. He crossed the room with a steadiness that made the shadows shift across the deep green walls, then crouched beside the wooden nightstand. The drawer slipped open with a soft scrape, the sound oddly loud in the quiet.
He hesitated, just long enough for me to feel it, before reaching inside.
When he stood again, he held a small stack of photos. Not glossy and new, but old ones. Ones that had worn edges; corners softened by years of being handled.
He didn’t hand them to me. Instead, he stepped closer, stopping just without reach, giving me every chance to step back if I needed to.
I didn’t.
Hours ago, I would have, but my feet were glued to the floor, and for once not out of fear.
“These are only a few memories I have captured. Mom has boxes in her attic, but these I may have stolen from her years ago. They are reminders that hope wasn’t lost.”
He turned the top photo towards me.
A little boy with messy hair, a stuffed fox tucked under one arm, and smiling up at the camera like the world was simple. His eyes, dull with the age of the colors, had to have been bright at one time.
Besides the small boy was another. Evander. A much younger version. He was soft around the edges, hair slightly longer and a bit gangly. But his eyes were the same as they are now. Deep brown, all seeing, and filled with a sort of patience that I never knew existed before now.
His head rested atop the smaller boy’s.
He lifted the next photo, revealing another moment captured in time.
The same small boy curled up against Evander’s side under a blanket.
“I want you to see what I remember.” His voice didn’t shake; something in it felt like it could.
“And I want you to know you don’t have to remember it for it to be real. I can remember it for the both of us.”
The next picture was different. Just a simple candid shot that was taken in the woods. A little boy was curled up in Evander’s lap, head tucked under his chin, small hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt like he was afraid he’d disappear if he dared to let go.
Evander, who had to be maybe twelve, had one hand wrapped around the boy’s back; the other hand resting protectively over those tiny, clenched fingers. His expression wasn’t playful or proud. It was…watchful. Protective. Like he’d been keeping something away.
My stomach dropped.
The Alpha looked at me, not the photo.
“This was a night you got scared,” he said quietly. “You wouldn’t sleep unless I held you. We were camping, sharing a tent since you insisted on it. I wasn’t in bed yet, and you came out crying because you dreamed you got lost.”
I still have those dreams.I didn’t say it though, my eyes were blinking back tears. Because this wasn’t possible. None of this was possible.
I wasn’t that boy. Icouldn’tbe that boy.
Evander hesitated before showing the next one.
This wasn’t cute, it wasn’t soft. It wasn’t something family framed that I knew of. It was real.
The little boy was sitting on a fallen log in the woods, knees pulled up tight to his chest. His face was blotchy from crying, eyes red, cheeks streaked with dirt. His small hands were around a stuffed fox, clinging to it like it was the only thing keeping him upright.
But the revealing part wasn’t the boy with crazy hair and sad blue eyes. It was Evander.
