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The sky above Forks always seemed on the verge of tears, as if it held an ancient sorrow. The mist hung between the trees like an untold secret, and the rain didn't fall, but hung in the air, suspended, soaking without quite falling. Nate watched that suspended moisture through the taxi window, unblinking.
When the car stopped in front of the house, he didn't move immediately. He scanned the facade with a steady gaze, taking note of every detail: the peeling paint on the railing, some empty planters and those occupied under a crude attempt at care, the warm lights inside, the slight movement of a curtain drawn by a trembling hand. Everything said something.
The driver offered help with the suitcase. Nate shook his head, not speaking.
The door opened before he reached the porch. Margaret Winter, his grandmother, appeared in the doorway with an unmistakable mixture of fear and tenderness. Her hair was pulled back in a clumsy bun, and her transparent blue eyes were moist before he even said a word.
"Nate..." she whispered.
He hugged her before he could think about it too much. Or maybe she hugged him first; he just accepted the touch. There was warmth in her arms, a soft scent of lavender and wood. Her voice trembled, but it wasn't fragile.
"You're so grown up," she said, looking him up and down. "And so much like your father that... it makes me want to cry and laugh at the same time."
Nate didn't respond. He just looked at her. In his eyes, that mix of recognition and assessment. A part of him had already gauged her: her nervous tone, her hurried movements as she opened the door, the way she smoothed her hair even though it hadn't been messed up. She was happy, yes. But also scared. Not of him. But of doing it wrong.
"Are you hungry?" she asked as he walked in. "I can make you hot chocolate. Or soup. Or both. I haven't cooked for anyone in a long time, but I'm still getting by with the oven."
"Chocolate's fine," Nate said, taking off his wet jacket. His tone was calm, low, not cold but not enthusiastic. As if words were a tool, not a necessity.
The house was old but well-kept. There were sloppy blankets folded in a corner, family pictures on the walls, and photos above the fireplace. Nate stopped in front of one: his father as a young man, with a smile he'd rarely seen in person. Next to it, one of his mothers holding him. He was probably two or three years old. The three of them were together in one, too. At a picnic. His mother was laughing. His father was looking at the camera with that expression Nate now recognized as his own.
"Your father used to look so serious in photos," Margaret commented, approaching with the cup of hot chocolate. "He said the photos were more realistic if you didn't fake happiness."
Nate nodded slightly.
—His smile was weird. But good. When he came out.
Margaret swallowed. She sat down with him in the armchair, her hands in her lap.
"He was so smart," she said. "Sometimes I couldn't tell if he was talking to me or just his thoughts. But he adored you. We didn't keep in touch as much as I'd like, but he'd send me letters, you know? He always told me how you were growing up, what you noticed, what you said. He once told me, 'Nate has eyes that see more than they should.' I didn't quite understand what he meant… but now I get it."
Nate looked at the cup, then at his grandmother. He noticed her slightly chewed nails, and the sleeves of her sweater stretched from tugging.
—Are you afraid I won't like it here?
The question was direct, like a bolt from the blue.
Margaret blinked, surprised.
—No. Or… maybe I do. But not because I don't love you. It's just… I don't want to be a replacement. No one can replace them, Nate. I just want to be there for you. However, I can. And… I don't know if that'll be enough.
Nate watched her for a few seconds, then nodded once.
—Just you being you is enough.
And Margaret, who had held back tears all day, hugged him again. This time, Nate didn't just let her. He held her, too.
"Oh, I almost forgot," she said then, standing up. "Your father... among several boxes of personal items and various things out of his will, left something for you," she said as she took a small keyring out of a drawer in the entryway. "His car. It arrived a couple of days ago."
He placed the keys in her hand. It was a worn leather fob with a metal Ford symbol. "It's in the garage. A '68 Mustang. He treasured it. He said he wanted it to be yours when you grew up."
Nate couldn't help it. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. That hurt more than any words.
"Let's go to dinner," Margaret suggested with a gentle smile. "There's a cafe I like. It's called The Lodge. It's very popular here."
Nate agreed. Not because he was hungry, but because he didn't know what else to do. They left together in the Mustang. The engine roared like an old animal, proud to be alive.
As they drove toward the center of town, he watched her out of the corner of his eye. His grandmother wore a serene expression, but her left hand trembled slightly, enough for Nate to notice. His ability to read people wasn't something he could turn off. He knew she, too, felt out of place, vulnerable, trying to make him feel at home without knowing how.
When they arrived, the waitress greeted them familiarly and assigned them a table near a window. While Margaret scanned the menu with nervous fingers, Nate had already read it all. He didn't order anything new. He always looked first and ordered later.
It was then that a tall, easy-going man approached the table. He had the most robust mustache Nate had ever seen and eyes that didn't easily stray.
"Margaret," he said in a deep voice, but with a friendly glow. "I'm so sorry about your son."
"Thank you, Charlie," she replied. "Charlie Swan, this is my grandson. Nate."
"Nice to meet you," said the sheriff, offering his hand.
Nate shook it firmly, without a smile.
His first impression was solid, he had a firm thumb, skin dry from manual labor, and direct gaze, without embellishment, he gave the impression of being a good man, but the way he watched and waited for the other person to speak made him seem socially awkward, he gave the impression that he did not know how to express himself properly.
"That look," Charlie said, raising an eyebrow. "It makes me want to confess something, and I'm the sheriff."
Margaret gave a small, nervous laugh. Nate tilted his head slightly, curious.
"Did you know my father?" he asked.
Charlie was a little surprised by the speed of the question but nodded.
—Yes. We were very close as kids. He was the smartest of all, without a doubt. He was always two steps ahead, even when he didn't say so. And you…
He stopped. He looked at him better.
—You have that same way of looking at me. As if you already knew what I was going to say before I said it. You're going to give me work, huh?
—Do you have any idea why he left here?
Charlie sighed and sat down unceremoniously across from him.
—Your father never felt cut out for Forks. He was too fast for this slow place. He left to breathe. And I think also to protect himself. He always thought too much and felt too much. It wore him down.
—And you? Why did you stay?
Charlie smiled. A droopy, honest smile.
—Because someone had to. And because... I'm slow but stubborn. And this place, with everything it has... is my home.
Nate studied him. He made a mental note of the way he looked at his grandmother, respectfully. How he avoided scrutinizing her face, as if afraid to see the resemblance to his lost friend.
"My daughter," Charlie said after a pause. "Bella. She's coming next month. To live with me. We haven't lived together in years." He said it almost as if in a confession.
—Why are you coming now?
—I think she wants to get to know me. Or maybe stop getting to know the man she imagined. I don't know.
"If I may give you some advice, please don't pretend you know how to be a parent," Nate said, without judgment. "Just be you. Most people appreciate it when you don't act."
Charlie looked at him silently. Then he clicked his tongue with a half smile.
—You know you don't look seventeen, right? I'm sitting in an interrogation… with a therapist… and a mirror all at the same time.
"I'm sorry," Nate said in a low tone.
Charlie chuckled, patted the table, and stood up.
—Well, if you ever want to drive that Mustang on the open road, let me know. I bet you'll do it better than your old man. But no illegal drag racing in my town, okay?
"Understood," Nate replied, for the first time with a hint of a smile.
That night, Nate climbed the stairs to his room and stood in front of the window. Outside, the forest looked like a slow-moving mural. Dark, deep. Full of unasked questions.
His room was simple. A bed with a blue bedspread, an antique lamp, a desk, and a nearly empty bookcase.
On the desk was a folded note in his grandmother's handwriting:
"There are no schedules, no strict rules. Just take care of yourself, and if you can, let me take care of you too. I'm not a mother, at least not anymore. But I'm a good grandmother. Or I try to be."
Nate smiled faintly. Then he opened his notebook. On the first page, he wrote in simple handwriting:
Observations:
The house is smaller than I remembered. But no less warm.
Margaret loves me. She's nervous. I'll get her to relax.
Charlie Swan is more honest than he seems. His fear is genuine.
My father thought too much. So do I. Forks seems like a friendly place. Why didn't my father want me here?
Bella will be here soon. Maybe she feels out of place, too.
The Mustang is more than a car. It's a story with an engine.
This place... might not be home. But maybe it's a starting point.
He closed his notebook. He turned off the light. He went to bed without saying a word.
And in the darkness, like a persistent echo, he remembered the words written in his father's letter:
"Where the light is never complete, shadows can live without fear."