I nod slowly, trying to process, trying to reconcile the man I know with the child he was.
“There’s a photograph,” Arthur trails off after a moment, standing and moving toward the hallway and taking one of the pictures off the wall and coming back in. I can’t believe I hadn’t taken the time to look at the pictures lining the hallway while I’ve been here.
He holds it out to me. I hesitate but take it. It’s him, Alex, but younger. So much younger. Maybe eight or nine. He’s standing stiffly, like he’s not sure what to do with his own body. His eyes are too serious for his face, too aware and too sharp. Even in a still image, he looks like he’s waiting for something to go wrong.
A weight settles in my chest.
“He didn’t trust easily,” he testifies. “Still doesn’t.”
I swallow, my thumb brushing lightly over the edge of the frame.
“But when he does…” he adds, “he holds on to it very tightly.”
I close my eyes for a second, because I know that feeling.
“He made a terrible choice,” Arthur continues. “But it wasn’t made lightly. It was made out of fear.”
I open my eyes again, looking down at the boy in the photo then at the man in my memory. The one who just stood in thisroom and told me he violated my trust because he thought it was necessary.
“He doesn’t get to do that,” I avow quietly.
“No,” he agrees. “He doesn’t.”
Relief flickers briefly in my heart. Because at least someone here isn’t pretending that what he did was okay.
“But understanding where it comes from,” he adds, “might help you decide what to do next.”
I put the photo down carefully on the dresser. My hands are steadier now. Not calm but… less chaotic. “I don’t know what to do,” I admit.
It feels like a failure to say it out loud, like I should be more certain and more decisive. But I’m not because nothing about this is simple.
“He broke my trust,” I say. “And I don’t know how to come back from that.”
“You might not,” he affirms. No sugarcoating or false reassurance. Just truth. “And that would be a reasonable decision,” he adds.
I nod slowly because it would be. It would be easier, too.
But I think about the garden, about the way he watches me like I matter, about the way he-
“I also don’t think he’s a bad person,” I admit. The words feel strange and conflicting after everything that’s happened.
Because both things are true: he hurt me and he cares about me. And I don’t know how to hold both of those things at the same time.
“That’s the difficult part,” Arthur says quietly.
I huff a small breath. “Yeah. I need time.”
“Then take it.”
I nod because that’s the only thing I’m sure of right now. Time. I need space to figure out where the line is and whether it’s already been crossed too far.
Arthur stands, moving toward the door, pausing just before he leaves. “He will respect your decision,” he assures.
I don’t know if that’s true, but I nod anyway.
“Thank you,” I muse.
He inclines his head slightly then steps out, leaving me alone again.
