It began with Elias.
The eldest Laurent sibling had never been one for sentimentality. Practical, reserved, always shouldering the family's burdens with an iron spine and calm eyes. But even Elias—especially Elias—had cracks in his armor.
In the solitude of his study, he found himself holding the small, silver rattle he had once bought the day after Aira was born. The tag still dangled, untouched, its edges faded. He had meant to give it to her the next morning. That morning never came.
Now, twenty-eight years old and the head of the Laurent Group, he wrapped the rattle in velvet and placed it in the memory box Seraphina had brought.
There was no letter.
Only a note, in Elias's sharp handwriting:
"This waited eighteen years. Welcome home, little sister."
Cassian, the second-born, was less poetic.
But grief made poets of them all.
He spent three hours in the tech lab, fingers moving silently over tempered glass and metal. The device he built was small—sleek, and palm-sized. It looked like nothing special, but when opened, it would project a hologram of their home—every corner, every hallway, the garden, even the room that had waited for her return.
A map of the life she had missed… and could now reclaim.
He tucked it into the box with a simple voice recording.
His voice cracked once.
"I wasn't there to protect you. But I am now. You have five shields, Aira. Use us."
Ronan didn't write anything at first.
Instead, he went to the sea.
It was her birthday in a few weeks. The first one they'd spend knowing she was alive. He combed the shores near the private Laurent estate, where they used to holiday as children. There, nestled in the tide pools, he found a shell—a soft lilac swirl. He remembered seeing it the day before she was born. He'd picked it up, then dropped it when he heard she had arrived.
He never found it again—until now.
He placed it in a tiny box within the box, lined with satin.
Attached was a torn page from an old journal. His teenage scrawl read:
"I've waited eighteen years to meet you. I hope you still like the sea."
Lucien's gift was wordless.
The artist didn't speak of emotions—he painted them.
His canvas was small, compact enough to fit the box. It showed five boys standing on a cliff, facing the ocean. One stood apart from the others, his hand extended toward a silhouette walking toward them through a glowing mist.
No faces. Just feeling.
On the back, he wrote a single line:
"Come home. We've saved a place for you."
Evander hesitated the longest.
Every time he tried to write, the words felt wrong. Too raw. Too much. So instead, he pulled out an old, worn hoodie. Navy blue, soft from years of wear. The one he'd always imagined lending her someday when she complained about the cold.
It smelled like him—like home, he hoped.
In the pocket, he tucked a note, folded into the shape of a star.
Inside:
"I don't know what kind of man I've grown into without you. But I think I'd be better if you were here."
Seraphina took the box the next morning.
Wrapped in white silk and tied with blue ribbon, it was heavier than it looked. Not from the objects—but from the weight of eighteen years of silence, longing, and love poured into every corner.
As she closed the lid, her hand paused on the clasp.
Aira didn't know them yet. Not truly. Not deeply. Not the way families were meant to know each other.
But when she opened this box…
She would feel it.
Not just the memories they made without her.
But the space they left, always waiting for her return.