Time moved forward without ceremony.
Ray noticed it first in the small things. The way the house no longer felt frozen when he walked through it. The way Alice began opening the windows again in the mornings, letting air circulate instead of keeping everything sealed and still. The way Reynolds left the house at regular hours once more, returning with dust on his boots and a tiredness that felt… familiar.
Arthur didn't come back.
That truth settled slowly, like sediment sinking to the bottom of clear water. No one announced it. No one said the words out loud. But each day that passed without him made the absence firmer, heavier, and harder to disturb.
People came.
At first, Ray didn't know why strangers kept knocking on the door. He watched from the hallway as Alice accepted wrapped loaves of bread, jars of stew, and small offerings placed into her hands with quiet murmurs and lowered eyes. Some people said Arthur's name softly, as if it might shatter if spoken too loudly. Others avoided it altogether.
Ray learned quickly which ones those were.
He learned that when adults spoke in careful tones, it meant something hurt underneath. He learned that when someone smiled too much, it meant they were trying to be kind. He learned that questions—especially his—had weight now.
So he stopped asking.
Instead, he listened.
Reynolds talked less than before. When he did speak, it was practical—about repairs that needed doing, about work, about things that required hands and effort. He didn't sit still for long. When he rested, it was with his eyes open, gaze distant, as though he were measuring something only he could see.
Alice was quieter in a different way.
She moved gently, like every sound she made needed permission first. Her attention never left Ray for long—not even when she was busy. A hand would find his shoulder as she passed, fingers brushing his hair, her touch grounding and constant.
Ray didn't pull away.
He understood, in the simple way children do, that she needed him to be there.
One afternoon, Ray wandered into the room he and Arthur had shared.
It wasn't forbidden. No one had told him not to go in. That almost made it worse.
Arthur's side of the room was untouched.
His boots were still lined neatly against the wall. His bed was made, the blanket folded with careful precision, and the corners tucked in the way Arthur always preferred. A small wooden practice sword rested beside the headboard, its handle worn smooth.
Ray stood in the doorway for a long time.
He remembered reaching for that sword once, asking if he could try it too. Arthur had paused—just for a moment—before handing it over, adjusting Ray's grip with quiet patience.
Ray hadn't been very good at it.
The memory didn't hurt sharply. It pressed instead, steady and dull, like something heavy placed against his chest.
He stepped back.
After that day, Ray stopped going into the room.
The strange dreams became less frequent.
They didn't disappear, but they lost their urgency. Instead of crashing into him all at once, the memories lingered at the edges of his thoughts—unreachable, indistinct. Sometimes a word surfaced without meaning. Sometimes an image flickered, gone before he could grasp it.
Ray stopped trying to chase them.
When they came, they came. When they didn't, he let the quiet be quiet.
It was easier that way.
He still woke some nights with his heart racing, breath shallow, and fear clinging tight for no clear reason. When that happened, he would sit up and wait, listening to the house until the sounds grounded him again—the creak of wood, the distant wind, and the muffled rhythm of his parents moving nearby.
He never screamed.
He learned how not to.
One evening, as the sky darkened outside, Ray sat on the floor near the hearth, stacking wooden blocks into a tower. His hands moved carefully, deliberately, even when the structure wobbled.
Alice watched him from across the room.
"You don't have to be so careful," she said softly.
Ray paused, considering her words.
"I don't want it to fall," he replied.
She didn't say anything after that. She just watched, eyes shining faintly in the firelight.
The tower stood.
Ray leaned back slightly, satisfied—not proud, just relieved.
Later, when he lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling beams, he thought about that feeling. The way keeping something steady required attention. The way letting go, even for a moment, could undo it all.
Arthur had been steady.
Now, Ray felt something settling into him—quiet, heavy, unavoidable.
Not a calling.
Not a destiny.
Just wait.
And though he didn't have words for it yet, Ray understood one simple truth as sleep finally claimed him:
If something was going to be held together now—
It would have to be him.