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"You live here?"
I frown.
"Yes."
His eyes move over my shoulder again.
"The whole time?"
"What does that mean?"
He doesn't answer. Rainwater drips from his hair onto my porch. I should ask him to explain. I should call someone. I should do a dozen things that are practical and sensible.
Instead, I hear myself say:
"Come inside before you freeze."
He hesitates. Then steps across the threshold. The moment his foot touches the old wooden floor…
The lights come back on.
Not flickering. Not struggling. Just on.
The boy notices. So do I. Neither of us says anything. I close the door against the storm.
"What's your name?"
He doesn't answer immediately. His hands tighten around the strap of his backpack. Like he has rehearsed this moment. Like he has been afraid of it. Finally, he looks at me. And the world tilts.
Because I know that face. Not from memory. Not exactly. From something deeper. Something I have spent 15 years refusing to acknowledge.
His eyes. Green-gray. The same impossible shade I see every morning when I look in the mirror.
My breath catches.
No.
My mind rejects it before the thought fully forms.
No.
The boy swallows.
"Are you..."
His voice breaks. He looks terrified. Not of me. Of the answer.
"...Carys Wren?"
I cannot speak. The storm rages outside. The cottage creaks around us. And somewhere deep inside me, something I buried 15 years ago opens its eyes.
"My name is Morrow Valentine."
The boy's fingers tighten around his backpack strap.
"I think..."
He stops. His face crumples with the weight of the words.
