The morning broke slow and soft.
Willowmere was cloaked in fog, the kind that made the whole village feel suspended in time. Dew clung to the windows. Somewhere in the orchard, a rooster crowed sleepily—late, as if even it sensed the world needed more rest.
Ian was the first awake.
He sat by the window, notebook in hand, his blanket still wrapped over his shoulders. His chest still ached from the night before, but the ache no longer felt like drowning—it felt like living. He didn't write. He just looked. At the mist. At the life quietly breathing beyond it.
Behind him, the house stirred.
James stepped into the doorway a few minutes later, hesitant. He cleared his throat, but Ian didn't turn.
"I thought you'd still be asleep," James said.
"I thought you wouldn't come in."
The silence stretched. James nodded to the chair opposite Ian.
"May I?"
Ian gave a slight nod. James sat.
The fog outside curled around the garden like a veil. Neither of them spoke for a long time.
"I read the letter," James said finally. "The one you left behind."
Ian didn't look at him. "Did you understand it?"
James paused. "I think I did. Too late."
That was the truth of it. And Ian didn't fight it.
"I didn't leave because I hated you," he said, his voice low. "I left because I was tired of being invisible in my own home. I couldn't spend the rest of my life waiting for someone to notice I was drowning."
James bowed his head, the weight of years pressing against his shoulders.
How many moments had he walked past this boy? How many silences had he mistaken for peace?
"I see you now," he said.
"I'm not sure that's enough."
James looked at him then—really looked. There were lines around Ian's eyes that hadn't been there before. Not from age. From grief. From fighting to stay alive in a house that only ever asked him to disappear quietly.
"No," James said. "It's not enough. But I'm here now. Not as your father, not as someone trying to fix things. Just… as someone who finally wants to sit beside you. For as long as you'll let me."
Their eyes met. And for once, Ian didn't flinch.
"I don't need you to fix it," he said. "I just need to know you won't leave again."
James wanted to say something more—but regret caught in his throat, thick as dust.
"I won't," he said, finally. And meant it.
And that was it.
No grand apology. No sweeping declaration. Just presence. And presence, Ian realized, was a kind of love he had never really known until now.
Later that day, Ian sat on the porch, his notebook open in his lap. Mira joined him, carrying a cup of tea and a soft smile.
"You've been quiet," she said gently.
"I've been thinking."
"Dangerous habit."
Ian chuckled, then handed her the notebook.
She blinked, surprised. "You sure?"
He nodded. "Just one page."
She read in silence.
If the time comes—and I know it will—don't remember me by the days I grew weaker.
Remember the field where Aria first spelled her name.
Remember Theo's bug funeral.
Remember the house filled with soup and laughter.
Remember that I was loved, finally.
And that I knew it.
When Mira looked up, her eyes were shining.
"Thank you," she whispered.
"Thank you," Ian said back, and meant it more than he ever had in his life.
That night, they all sat together by the fire—James and Elina holding hands quietly, Alisha brushing Aria's hair, Theo curled in Ian's lap, half-asleep. Noah handed Ian a steaming mug and sat beside him.
The fire crackled.
No one spoke much.
But no one needed to.
For once, there was nothing left unsaid.