Simon had once believed that time dulled old wounds, smoothing memory down to something safe to touch. But as he and Tom walked side by side into the deepening night, Simon felt raw again — every nerve exposed. Tom's presence was both comfort and ache, a reminder of what had been lost and quietly waiting.
They took the long way home, past the silent church and blinking traffic lights, neither of them speaking. Simon's thoughts reeled through the last twenty‑four hours: the yearbook, the word scrawled in red, the tin box, the confession — Tom's confession — tolling inside him like a bell he couldn't silence.
There were things Simon needed to say. Things he had avoided for years. But the moment would not settle.
Tom walked easily beside him, hands in his coat pockets, gaze lifting now and then to the sky. When he looked at Simon, his expression held patience — and something like forgiveness — as if he understood how difficult it was to stand at the edge of truth and step forward.
Simon's apartment rose above the city in glass and steel. Inside, the quiet was different from the corridors of his office or the hush of the street — intentional, earned.
Tom took it in without comment. Then he smiled.
"This suits you," he said. There was pride in his voice, untainted by envy. "You've done well."
The words landed harder than Simon expected.
He made tea, hands unsteady, and they sat on opposite ends of the sofa, the city lights stretched beneath the windows between them like another presence.
"I should have told you everything," Simon said finally. "When I saw you again… I thought I'd forgotten how to trust."
"You didn't," Tom said gently. "You just learned to survive."
Simon nodded, swallowing the tightness in his throat. "You need to know what's happening. About the messages. About Sarah Miller and Andrew Morris."
He told him — the threats, the woman in yellow, the passport and the ticket, the resurfaced names at his company. The words came haltingly, but once started, they refused to stop.
When he finished, the silence felt dense, shared.
"Why did I let you in so easily?" Simon asked. "I could have turned away."
Tom considered this. "Maybe you didn't want to be alone anymore."
The truth of it stung.
Before Simon could answer, his phone buzzed. A message from his secretary:
Miller and Morris have confirmed. Interview rescheduled: tomorrow, 10 a.m. Complications ongoing.
Of course there were.
"They're coming back," Simon said.
Tom didn't look surprised. "Do you want me there?"
Simon hesitated only a moment. "Yes. If you're willing."
"I am," Tom said quietly.
Simon crossed to the windows, restless. Somewhere out there, threads were tightening — Sarah and Andrew, the woman on the train, the mother he had never known.
"What if I'm never enough?" Simon asked, his voice barely steady. "For her. For anyone."
Tom stood and crossed the space between them. He rested a hand on Simon's shoulder — grounding, deliberate.
"You're enough for me," he said. "You always have been."
Something broke open. Simon didn't speak. He didn't need to. For a moment, he allowed himself to lean into the truth of the words.
Outside, the city refused to sleep.
Across town, Sarah Miller stared at an anonymous text glowing on her phone:
Tomorrow. Tell him everything.
In a bathroom mirror, Andrew Morris rehearsed the lie he'd been telling himself for years.
And on a midnight train north, Phoebe Mukasa held a worn photograph of a boy at a bus stop, her heart beating with equal parts hope and fear.
The past was done waiting.
And none of them would escape it unchanged.