Ray noticed the change before anyone told him.
It wasn't something obvious. There were no whispered conversations cut short when he entered a room, no sudden hushes or guarded looks. If anything, the house felt quieter in a different way—less brittle than before, as if something inside it had shifted and was slowly settling into a new shape.
Alice tired more easily now.
She still woke early, still moved through the house with practiced ease, but Ray caught the small differences. The way she paused before standing. The way she rested one hand against the table before turning. Sometimes—when she thought no one was watching—her palm would drift to her stomach, fingers splayed there as if checking something unseen.
Reynolds noticed too.
Ray could tell by how often his father was home. By how his eyes followed Alice when she crossed the room. By the way he asked if she needed anything, then lingered even after she said no.
Ray didn't ask.
He watched.
Time moved on without marking itself.
The air grew warmer. The days lengthened. Ray was allowed to wander a little farther from the house now—just to the edge of the road, just to the neighbor's fence, just far enough that he could still see home if he turned around.
He never went farther than that.
Other children played nearby sometimes. They ran and shouted and argued, scraped their knees and forgot about it moments later. Ray watched them from a distance, leaning against a fence or sitting on a low stone wall, content to observe without joining.
They didn't watch the world the way he did.
They didn't keep track of where adults were. Didn't notice when footsteps changed or voices lowered. They lived entirely in the moment, unburdened by the weight of remembering.
Ray envied them.
Just a little.
It was Alice who told him.
Not all at once. Not with ceremony.
They were sitting together in the late afternoon, light slanting in through the window, dust motes drifting lazily in the air. Alice folded laundry while Ray sat cross-legged on the floor, matching socks by size.
She hesitated before speaking.
"You're going to be a big brother," she said softly.
Ray looked up.
The words took a moment to settle. He searched her face—not for joy, not for grief, but for reassurance. Alice smiled, tentative and careful, as if bracing herself for something she wasn't sure how to handle.
"I see," Ray said.
His voice didn't shake.
Relief came first.
Then fear.
And beneath both, a quiet ache he couldn't quite name.
Arthur should have been here.
The thought surfaced without bitterness, without anger—just truth. Arthur would have understood immediately. Would have known what to say. Would have stood a little straighter, already planning for a future that hadn't arrived yet.
Ray wasn't like that.
He nodded and went back to the socks, fingers slower now, more deliberate.
Alice watched him for a long moment before returning to her task.
That night, Ray lay awake longer than usual.
The house felt full.
Not crowded—occupied. Like something new had taken up space, reshaping the silence. He could hear Reynolds's steady breathing from the next room, Alice's softer rhythm beside him.
A memory stirred faintly.
A girl. Laughter. A future moment he couldn't see clearly enough to trust.
It slipped away before he could grasp it, leaving behind only the sense that something important was waiting.
Ray rolled onto his side, facing the wall.
Staying meant something different now.
It wasn't just about not leaving. Not about being careful or quiet or good. It was about being present—about holding space for things that hadn't arrived yet, and protecting them without knowing how.
He pressed his hand lightly against the wall, grounding himself in its solidity.
Arthur had fallen into the unknown.
Ray had stayed.
And now, with the quiet certainty of a child who understood more than he should—but less than he wanted—Ray knew he would keep staying.
For his parents.
For what was coming.
And for the weight that had settled into his life, shaping him not into something extraordinary—
But into someone who would not let go.