The days settled into a rhythm that felt both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time.
Ray learned the shape of it slowly.
Mornings began early now. Reynolds left the house before the sun had fully risen, movements quiet and deliberate. Ray would wake to the sound of the door closing, soft but final, and lie still until Alice stirred beside him. She no longer asked if he wanted to sleep in. She simply let him be, as if trusting him to know what he needed.
Ray almost always followed her into the kitchen.
He liked being where she was. Not out of fear—not exactly—but because the space felt anchored when she moved through it. He watched the way she worked, memorizing small details he'd never cared about before: how she tied her hair back, how she tested the heat of the pan with her palm, how her shoulders loosened just a little once the day properly began.
Sometimes she caught him staring.
"Is something wrong?" she would ask.
Ray would shake his head.
And it would be true.
The town no longer felt hostile.
But it didn't feel safe either.
Ray noticed things now that he hadn't before. The way strangers' eyes lingered on him a moment too long before softening with recognition. The way conversations paused when he passed, only to resume once he was out of earshot. He didn't understand the words, but he understood the tone.
This is the boy who stayed.
The thought didn't frighten him.
It made him careful.
At the market, Ray kept close to Alice's side, fingers brushing the fabric of her sleeve as they walked. He watched the crowd instead of the stalls, tracking movement, listening to the rise and fall of voices. Once, when a man laughed too loudly behind him, Ray flinched before he could stop himself.
Alice noticed.
She rested a hand on his head, grounding him with the familiar pressure. "You're all right," she murmured.
He nodded, ashamed of the relief that washed through him.
That afternoon, Ray sat on the floor of the living room while Alice sorted through old belongings.
Not everything—just a small box.
Ray pretended not to watch, but his attention pulled toward it anyway. Inside were odds and ends: worn gloves, a chipped mug, scraps of paper with notes written in Reynolds's hand.
And Arthur's old cloak.
It was folded neatly, just as it always had been, the fabric slightly frayed at the edges. Alice paused when she reached it, fingers hovering above the cloth for a long moment before lifting it free.
Ray's chest tightened.
She didn't cry.
She simply held it, eyes unfocused, as if weighing something invisible.
"I'm going to put this away," she said quietly, more to herself than to Ray.
He nodded again, though she hadn't asked.
When she left the room with the cloak, Ray stared at the empty box.
Something had shifted.
Not broken—changed.
He understood, dimly, that this was how it would be from now on. Things would be sorted. Put away. Carried differently.
He picked up one of the gloves and turned it over in his hands. It smelled faintly of leather and dust. After a moment, he placed it back where it had been.
Some things weren't meant to be moved.
That night, Ray sat with Reynolds by the hearth.
It was the first time they'd been alone together for more than a few minutes since the cliff.
Reynolds didn't speak at first. He stared into the low flames, expression unreadable, one arm resting on his knee. Ray mirrored him unconsciously, sitting still, hands folded.
"You don't have to sit so straight," Reynolds said eventually.
Ray relaxed—just a little.
Reynolds glanced at him, then back to the fire. "You doing all right?"
The question was simple.
Ray thought about it carefully.
"I think so," he said.
Reynolds nodded, accepting the answer as it was. He reached out and rested a large hand briefly on Ray's shoulder—heavy, solid, reassuring.
"That's enough, then," he said.
Ray felt something ease inside him.
The dreams came again that night.
Not sharp. Not overwhelming.
Just a sense of standing at the edge of something vast, watching paths stretch out in every direction. He didn't move. He didn't need to.
When he woke, the feeling lingered—not fear, not dread, but awareness.
The world had weight.
People had weight.
And Ray was learning, day by day, how not to let that weight crush him.
He rolled onto his side, pulling the blanket closer, and closed his eyes again—sleeping lightly, listening to the steady sounds of the house.
Still here.
Still staying.
And slowly, without realizing it, learning the shape of things as they were now.