“They’re nearly ready, Lady Magda.” The words drifted from the archway, hushed and reverent.

Magda did not turn.

She stood unmoving before the cradles, fingers resting against the cool lip of carved stone. The air in the chamber was warm, though not oppressive. A lingering heat from the ever-burning sconces, their glow licking at the edges of her silhouette, pulling long shadows from her form and spilling them across the floor.

"Come closer, Initiate Thorn," Magda murmured at last. Her voice carried the crisp edge of command, tempered, though, by something subtler—a note of something wistful.

Footsteps, measured and careful, brushed against polished stone. Thorn approached as though stepping onto sacred ground. Magda felt the weight of her gaze, that quiet scrutiny she had long grown accustomed to. Reverence and awe were expected. Admiration was inevitable.

And yet, with Initiate Thorn, there was always something more. Something unspoken, lingering at the edges of her devotion. A hesitation, a question held too tightly between her teeth. But silence, too, Magda had learned, was often an answer in itself.

Three newborns lay before her, nestled in the heart of the chamber. Their tiny forms, swathed in folds of golden silk, barely stirred. Small against the vastness of the room. Small, and yet—everything. The reason for it all.

Magda exhaled a quiet breath. “Breathtaking, aren’t they?” Her fingers hovered just above the infants, tracing the air as though she might capture their innocence between her hands. “Such fragility. Such serenity. Untouched by the world’s tempests and turmoils. And yet, one day, the weight of an entire world will rest upon their untested shoulders.” Her lips pressed together—not quite sorrow, not quite resignation. “A profound burden for ones so young. And an undeniable injustice. Would you not say?”

Beside her, Initiate Thorn tensed.

Magda felt the hesitation, the quiet pull of thought. The way the young woman turned the words over, weighing them, sifting them for meaning and searching for wisdom.

She had seen it before, the silent war between youthful certainty and the slow, creeping realisation that the world was neither kind nor fair. But at last, she spoke, and when she did, her soft yet steady voice held an unexpected weight.

“My mother, may the Divine one aid her in her rest, always said that in the grand tapestry of life, the weight of responsibility is not a burden but a testament to our strength, and that a life devoid of duty is but a faint whisper, lacking the resonance of true purpose.”

Magda turned slightly, candlelight playing across her features as she studied the younger woman.

Thorn did not falter. “She said that we are defined by the burdens we carry—and by the strength we gain in bearing them.”

A quiet chuckle escaped Magda’s lips, though it held no amusement. Only something distant and reflective.

“Regrettably, I never had the privilege of meeting your mother.” Magda’s gaze drifted to the infants again, lingering a moment longer before settling fully on Thorn. “Freya was her name, yes?”

Initiate Thorn nodded—pride, faint but unmistakable in her expression at the mention of her mother's name.

“From what I’ve heard, she was a profound beacon of insight. A rarity indeed.”

Thorn’s eyes glistened.

“I’ve always believed so,” she said, a thoughtful smile ghosting her lips. “Yet, growing up, I saw how others viewed her—how they misunderstood her. In our village, she was an enigma, an unconventional piece in an otherwise simple puzzle. Her insights, her perspectives… many mistook them for madness. They called her a fool.”

Her gaze drifted, unfocused, lost in memories only she could see.

“But to me, she was a wellspring of wisdom. A mind far greater than the world around her deserved or cared to recognise. Perhaps, in their eyes, that aligns me with her—this so-called madness. And if that is the case… then so be it.” She inhaled deeply. “If being deemed a fool is my fate, then I shall bear that title with pride—in honour of my mother’s memory.”

Magda probed her in silence for a moment longer.

“A commendable attitude,” she said at last, nodding thoughtfully. “Especially for one of your years. You speak with such sincerity, such truth.”

A pause. Small, deliberate.

“It is one of the reasons I have always enjoyed your company. You possess more wisdom than your age should allow.” Magda let the compliment settle before shifting the conversation, her curiosity piqued. “Tell me, how fares your self-imposed task of reading every book in our extensive library?”

Thorn straightened.

“Truthfully, Lady Magda, I believe I have managed just under half the collection. However…” Her expression darkened slightly, shadowed by thought. “During my reading, I encountered several volumes in a rather deplorable state of disrepair. So, I have taken a brief hiatus from my reading to transcribe them. They hold knowledge too valuable to be lost. After all, knowledge is one of the world’s most precious treasures, and one that I believe everyone should have the chance to access.” She hesitated, then exhaled with a slight shake of her head. "Even if the sisters believe my mission to be a frivolous waste of time."

Magda’s lips curled into a knowing smile.

“You know,” she mused, “wisdom and time share a most peculiar relationship. What is once held in high esteem may later be questioned, while choices dismissed as folly can, in time, reveal their true worth. My life bears witness to this very paradox. Yet, given the chance, I would choose the same paths again.” She allowed the words to settle, letting the silence stretch just enough to give them weight before continuing. “Your mother’s legacy, as well as the journey you have now undertaken, reminds me of a lesson the Divine Mother once imparted to me.”

Magda closed her eyes briefly as if hearing the words anew.

“Wisdom often masquerades in the guise of the fool, offering hidden riches to those who look beyond the surface.”

She did not miss the trace of confusion in Initiate Thorn’s eyes, the way her brow knit in quiet contemplation.

Magda’s smile deepened.

“The lesson, though seemingly simple, has been a constant companion throughout my lifetime. And despite the passing years, despite my misadventures and mistakes, I have steadily unravelled its truth.”

She held Thorn’s gaze.

“Wisdom, my dear, is not found in making perfect choices—it lies in how we navigate the consequences of our mistakes, embrace our flaws, and recognise the strengths that emerge from our vulnerabilities. To put it plainly, what may seem foolish to one may, in truth, be wisdom yet undiscovered. For wisdom does not always announce itself. Just as the deepest rivers flow silently, the wisest among us are not always recognised in their time. History is littered with those deemed fools—visionaries who dared to challenge the world as it was, who stood against the tide of convention. They were ridiculed and dismissed. And yet, in time, they were the ones remembered.”

Thorn’s brow unfurrowed.

“I think I understand,” she said. “You’re saying that just because something I choose to do is considered pointless by the majority, even to the point of ridicule, it doesn’t mean I should be put off.”

Magda inclined her head, approval in her gaze.

“Exactly,” she affirmed. “True wisdom often resides in questioning what others accept without thought, in seeking relentlessly and even standing against the tide when the world insists you should not. It is those courageous enough to endure scorn in their own time who often pave the way for enlightenment in the next.”

Thorn inhaled deeply, letting the weight of the lesson settle.

“Thank you, my Lady,” she said at last, her voice steady. “Your words, as always, give me much to think about.”

Magda’s lips curled in quiet amusement. “And so they should,” she replied. But even as she spoke, her gaze drifted, drawn back to the three infants swathed in gold before her.

“Now,” she murmured, more to herself, “if only I could heed my own advice. For my life, I find myself torn—questioning whether the decision I am about to make is one of wisdom… or folly.”

Initiate Thorn spoke with quiet conviction. “I may not fully understand the weight of the decision before you,” she admitted. “The sisters have only shared fragments with me. But even with so little, one truth is clear—your actions are rooted in courage.”

Magda exhaled, shaking her head with quiet humility.

“True bravery,” she continued, “belonged to my sister, who laid down her life for nothing more than the chance that this moment could come to pass. It belongs to the mothers who entrusted their children to my care, knowing they will likely never see them again. Bravery will be the legacy of these three, who will grow up burdened with a responsibility no one should have to bear. And let us not forget the countless souls who fought and fell—all in the hope of securing a future free from darkness.”

She drew a slow breath.

“As for me? I am merely a guardian. A transient figure in the grand design. My task is not to shape history, but to guide those who will.” Her eyes darkened, the weight of foresight settling upon her. “Those destined for greatness… and for profound adversity.”

A heavy silence settled between them.

At last, Thorn found her voice again.

“Well,” she said firmly, “I still think you’re brave.”

No hesitation. No doubt.

“To willingly leave behind everything you’ve ever known, all for the chance at a future you will never personally witness—if that does not define bravery, then I truly don’t know what does.”

Magda exhaled, but the weight in her chest did not ease.

“Is it truly bravery,” she murmured, “to choose a life where I may live out my remaining days in peace? To finally experience the joy of motherhood—a longing I have carried for so long, yet was always denied due to my nature? Is it bravery to leave behind a world in chaos, not out of sacrifice, but out of fear that I would not be able to protect those who matter most from the many evils seeking them harm?”

Her fingers brushed absently over the smooth surface of the cradle as though grounding herself against the thoughts pressing in.

“To find solace in a peaceful death on my own terms… all while still being celebrated as a selfless hero of the cause?” She paused. “No.” The word settled between them, heavy and unyielding. “It seems that selfish might be the more fitting word to describe my fate.”

Stillness fell back over the room.

The silence, however, did not last.

“Initiate Thorn!”

The sharp voice sliced through the chamber like a hot knife through freshly churned butter.

Magda exhaled, already knowing the source before she turned.

“Sister Delphine,” Initiate Thorn sputtered.

The short, stern-faced woman strode forward, her sharp features framed by the severe cut of her hood, her expression pinched with disapproval.

“I sent you with one simple task—to inform Her Divineness that the ritual is nearing completion. Yet, why am I not surprised to find you here, overwhelming her with your idle words as always?”

She sighed, theatrically, before turning to Magda with a deep, practised bow.

“My deepest apologies, Lady Magda. We try to teach them respect, but it’s like pouring water onto a stone.” Her lips pursed. “It simply doesn’t soak in. But rest assured, she will be punished.”

Her gaze flicked to Thorn, expectant, waiting for her to shrink beneath the reprimand.

Magda, however, responded smoothly, unruffled by the intrusion.

“It’s no trouble at all, Sister Delphine.” She met the woman’s gaze without the slightest trace of irritation. “And there is no need for punishment. The delay in our dear Initiates' return is my doing, not hers.”

There was no room for argument in her tone—only quiet authority.

With an almost imperceptible shift in focus, she addressed the true purpose of the sister’s arrival.

“Given your sudden presence, am I to assume everything is ready? Is it time to proceed?”

Sister Delphine inclined her head stiffly. "Indeed, My Lady. The pool is prepared, the ritual set, and the ashes are in place. We now await only your presence—and that of the three babes—to begin."

A pause.

"Do you require my assistance…?"

"That won’t be necessary," Magda interjected smoothly. "Our young Initiate here will assist me in transporting our precious cargo. Please, go ahead; we will follow shortly."

Sister Delphine hesitated.

"If you are certain, My Lady," she said at last, though her tone carried a trace of reluctance. Her gaze flicked toward Initiate Thorn again, quick and assessing, suspicion lingering beneath the surface. Saying nothing, however, with a final bow of her head, she turned, stepping back through the doorway and retreated down the stairs beyond, her footsteps echoing for a few moments longer before silence reclaimed the chamber.

"And so, the critical moment arrives," Magda declared, lowering herself with measured grace, fingers gently curling around a bundle of golden silk.

She lifted the swaddled infant with reverence, her movements deliberate yet careful. "Initiate Thorn, if you would?" she extended the bundle.

Thorn accepted it with slightly unsure hands, adjusting her grip instinctively, eyes skimming up as if seeking silent reassurance.

“While we have a short time left,” Magda continued, tucking the gold more securely around the child, “there is one favour I would ask of you.”

Initiate Thorn straightened. “A favour? Of course, My Lady—anything.”

Magda’s eyes glimmered with something unreadable. A knowing glint. A trace of mystery. She leaned in slightly, her voice deepening.

“After the Ceremony, I wish for you to return to my office, where, on my desk, you will find a box. Within this box, you will find two distinct wonders—each a mystery unto itself.”

She held the initiate’s gaze.

“The decision before you will be profound: to embrace both, one, or neither. And as you stand at this crossroads, weigh these words in your heart: in the dance of destiny, the folly of wisdom and the wisdom of folly intertwine, leading to paths uncharted. To seize what is unseen, to break what is sealed, is to invite the cosmos to unfold at your touch. Choose with insight, for each path offers its own revelation. Every step forward is a covenant—unspoken, yet binding. The gods may observe with idle amusement, seeing not lives but pieces shifting on an eternal board. They will not stay your hand, nor mourn your fall. Choice is the burden of the mortal soul—and the only proof it was ever free.”

She drew a breath, not steady but resolute. “Though some would call my faith in you unfounded,” she continued, voice soft as falling ash, “I know better. Whatever choice you make, trust that it will lead you to unravel secrets even the sagacious dare not contemplate. And know that your decision bears the power to reshape not only your destiny, but perhaps the course of all we know.”

Jack eased his Citroën into the small, secluded clearing, tyres crunching softly over the forest floor. The engine hummed, low and steady, as he rolled to a slow, contemplative stop. His gaze drifted over the peculiar trees surrounding him, twisting limbs and gnarled trunks forming an unspoken language of their own.

Jack studied them as one might a crowd of strangers, searching for a familiar face, or at the very least, one that wouldn’t ask awkward questions.

One tree in particular was supposed to stand out. A marker. A beacon. An oddity among oddities.

Was it the one with the threadbare branch clawing skyward, as if appealing to some long-abandoned god? Or the one slumped downwards, all listless and bent, like an arm too tired to pretend anymore?

His foot hovered above the accelerator, hesitation settling in like an unwelcome passenger.

The upward branch felt right. Jack couldn’t think of a reason why. It just did. Something about its crooked defiance stirred a quiet note in his chest, a resonance that defied logic but demanded trust.

He nodded to no one in particular and released the clutch. The Citroën crept forward with all the confidence of a man in socks crossing a polished floor.

Then, with the theatrical timing of a vaudeville act, it coughed. Sputtered. Let out a breathy, dying wheeze. And died.

Jack let his forehead settle against the wheel with a soft thud, fingers drumming in an unspoken rhythm of irritation.

“Right,” he said, lifting his gaze toward the other tree—the drooping one, pitiful in posture but suddenly looking smug. “Upon further reflection, maybe you were trying to tell me something.”

He shook his head, resigned to the inevitable truth of things: Logan would have to help shift the car later, preferably after breakfast.

The campsite, as ever, sat lodged in the strange hollow where sense came to die. No map ever quite marked its position, and no GPS dared acknowledge it. It was a place Magda had brought them to year after year, as if tethered not by coordinates but memory alone. A pocket of the world where technology came to die, and logic was treated as a passing suggestion.

Magda, delightfully unhinged and maddeningly enigmatic, had claimed it was old magic. The sort that hummed in the roots of things. Not the flashy, wand-waving kind but something ancient, woven into bark and breath and stone. Jack, ever the reluctant cynic, had scoffed at the time, but never quite managed to shake the idea loose. Especially now, with her gone and the silence thick in her absence.

His eyes drifted to the second car, half-obscured by the Citroën’s obstinate bulk. Of course. Cara. The eternal early bird. If time were a race, she’d have crossed the finish line before he’d tied his shoes. It was a sort of unspoken pact between them—she’d arrive first, and he’d arrive late enough to comment on it.

Seatbelt unclicked, Jack zipped up his jacket, its fabric stiff from years of wear and mild neglect. The air nipped at his face, cool, damp, and still holding onto winter’s last breath like an old grudge.

He instinctively reached for his phone, thumb brushing the power button. Predictably, the screen remained stubbornly black.

“No use for you out here,” he murmured, slipping it into the glove compartment. His wallet followed, fingers pausing only briefly on the cracked leather before he shut the compartment with a soft, final click.

Goodbye, world.

“Right then,” he said, as if talking himself into motion. “Let’s do this, shall we?”

The door creaked open, and the world outside met him like an old friend with cold hands. His boots sank into the dew-heavy grass, each step leaving a mark that steamed slightly in the chill. Spring might have been announced, but winter had clearly decided to loiter a little longer, just to make a point.

He kept to the tree line, breath fogging in little puffs, his shadow trailing long and thin behind him. Then, as he rounded one of the broader trunks, it was there, inevitable and quietly triumphant.

The campsite. Already halfway to done.

He caught the flicker of motion beneath what might have been called a tent in a more generous age. In its present state, it had all the structural integrity of a sulking plastic bag left too long in the rain.

“Well, it’d be impolite not to interrupt,” he murmured, as if etiquette had ever been something he respected when temptation came knocking.

“Lovely to see you’ve kicked things off without us!” he declared at full volume, his voice slicing through the quiet like a brick through stained glass.

The reaction was immediate: a small shriek, startled and sharp, sprang from the heap of tangled poles, nylon, and tarp.

His grin arrived a moment before she did.

Cara emerged from the wreckage with all the elegance of someone clawing their way out of a particularly vivid nightmare. Her white hair, normally a study in control and precision, had surrendered to the wild entirely. Twigs jutted out like crooked pins in a failed updo, while leaves clung to her as if they’d paid rent.

Her face, smudged with dirt, bore the clear imprint of a failed clean-up attempt: a swipe across her brow that had only succeeded in smearing the filth into something resembling intentional war paint. The sleeves of her hoodie were shoved back to the elbows, exposing a patchwork of fine scratches that suggested she'd lost an argument with a particularly prickly shrub. And as for the front of her shirt—well, that looked damp in places best left uninvestigated, as though it had spent the morning wrestling with something soggy and unwilling.

She straightened slowly, brushing herself down with the weary dignity of someone trying to salvage a shred of grace from the jaws of disaster. A stubborn leaf was peeled from her sleeve before she finally turned to Jack and fixed him with a look—a carefully cultivated blend of theatrical annoyance and genuine fatigue.

“Jack…” Cara’s voice floated out, clearly suspicious. “When did you get here? If you’ve been standing there the entire time, watching me wrestle with this stupid, bloody contraption, I swear to God—”

She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t need to. The threat hung in the air like a guillotine with a frayed rope. When her eyes finally met his, however, the storm broke. The indignation in her voice lost its teeth, giving way to a telltale gleam far too amused to be genuinely furious.

“I haven’t,” Jack said quickly, hands raised in mock innocence, his grin doing nothing to help his case. “I only just got here. Honest.”

He closed the distance and pulled her into a hug—solid and unguarded, the kind that made the cold feel slightly less cruel.

“Seems like your tent-pitching skills are still the stuff of legend,” he murmured against her shoulder, all warmth and teasing.

Cara groaned. Not theatrically this time.

“Demons design these stupid tents,” she muttered into his jacket. Her arms wound around him with equal heat and equal comfort before she pulled back and fixed the offending mess with a look that could've ignited dry leaves.

She kicked it.

A single, pointed, cathartic kick.

The structure, at least, what little there was of it, promptly folded in on itself like a dying insect. Poles clattered. Tarpaulin sighed.

Cara stared at the heap.

“Well,” she said, voice flat, “that’s that then.”

Jack chuckled. “You know, for someone who ranked top of nearly everything back in school, your continued war with basic practical tasks never fails to impress.”

He bent down and retrieved a stray carbon fibre rod—one of many that had staged a mutiny—and began threading it through the fabric with an almost aggravating ease. The poles obeyed him without protest, slipping into place like they remembered him from better days.

Cara, already kneeling, made a sound somewhere between a scoff and a sigh.

“No sign of Logan, then?” Jack continued, moving from corner to corner, sliding each rod into its ring with mechanical familiarity.

“Not yet,” she muttered, hammering a tent peg into the ground with enough force to suggest it had personally wronged her. “He’s consistent, at least. I’m pathologically early, he’s chronically late, and you always turn up somewhere in the middle. It’s our thing.”

“In fairness,” Jack said, glancing back with a lopsided smile, half in amusement, half in defence of their foster brother, “he does have the furthest to travel.”

His smile lingered a second longer than it should have before slipping away.

“I won’t lie, though…” His voice dipped, losing its edges. “I still struggle with how far we were all scattered after Magda’s—”

He stopped himself.

Not because the word itself was hard to say, but because speaking it aloud would make it real in a way memory hadn’t yet allowed.

And so, the silence settled.

The trees around them whispered in hushed tones, leaves brushing against one another like old friends passing secrets. Somewhere deeper in the woods, a bird called out once, twice, then fell silent, as though even nature recognised this wasn’t the time for noise.

“I know,” Cara said softly, the words wrapped in the hush of remembering. She stood with deliberate care, brushing her hands against her jeans as if shaking loose more than just dirt. Then she drew in a long, steadying breath.

When she finally looked at him, it was full-on, chin tilted, eyes narrowed in subtle scrutiny.

“You’ve changed,” she said, neatly sidestepping the heaviness of the moment with the precision of someone who’d had years to practise it. “You’re taller by at least two inches. Hair’s longer, too. It suits you. And look at this…” She gestured vaguely at his chin. “This tragic little attempt at stubble.”

The jab was gentle, just barbed enough to be affectionate while still being dressed as mockery.

“Has it really been that long?” Cara sighed.

Jack smiled. The kind that tugged at one side of his mouth and didn’t quite reach his eyes—at least not yet.

“I’ll have you know,” he said, deadpan, “this is only three days’ growth.”

She gave him a look.

“And yes,” he added, more softly, “it’s been a little over two years for us. And just under three since we’ve seen Logan.”

“Three years?” Cara echoed, the words catching somewhere between disbelief and quiet grief.

“Time flies when you’re having fun,” Jack muttered, rolling his eyes. Then, as if tugged by something internal, his expression shifted.

“I’ll be honest, though, this did catch me off guard.”

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, crumpled piece of paper, the kind that looked like it had survived a washing machine and at least one existential crisis. With careful hands, he smoothed it flat, his fingers tracing the edges like they were lines on a map he’d once known by heart.

“I mean, I knew you had the ashes after the funeral. But I’d convinced myself you’d already scattered them. Quietly. Somewhere tasteful. Probably with a speech. Something very you.”

Cara blinked. “You really think I’d do that without you and Logan?” Her voice pitched higher with incredulity. “Honestly, Jack. I would never.”

He gave a noncommittal half-shrug. “I don’t know. It’s been years, and we never really talked about what we’d do with them. Just sort of… avoided the conversation. Like if we didn’t bring it up, the decision would make itself.”

He shrugged again, more to himself this time than to her, then turned back to the letter.

“But this part…” he murmured, thumbing the bottom edge of the page. “Her last request—it’s just... bizarre.”

He read the words again slowly, as if they might offer him a loophole.

“Honestly, it reads more like instructions for summoning something than scattering ashes. And out of all the places she could’ve picked... why here? I mean, yeah, it’s a nice spot. Picturesque. Serene. But getting here was always an absolute nightmare.”

“It’s not that odd if you think about it.” Cara countered. “Magda loved this place. Remember how she’d drag us out here every summer? Rain or shine.”

Her lips quirked upward at the memory, though it came paired with a tear that slipped free before she could blink it away. It traced a quiet line down her cheek, catching the light just enough to betray her.

Jack said nothing at first. Just folded the paper along its creases, as if trying to preserve not just the instructions but everything wrapped up inside them. “But why now?” he asked. “After three years, why send these letters? And something else doesn’t add up. I found this on my bed. No stamp, no postmark, not even an address. How did it get there?” He turned it over, scrutinising the familiar handwriting, his eyes narrowing slightly. “If not for the words themselves, the mention of this place and Magda’s unmistakable handwriting, I might’ve thought it was some elaborate prank.”

Cara’s expression mirrored his own.

“I’m just as clueless as you,” she admitted. “Like yours, mine just… appeared. Right on my bedside table. Beatrice—my foster mother—was certain she’d never seen it before. The timing can’t be a coincidence, though. After all, we all just turned eighteen, so maybe the delay was intentional. We were too young to travel alone right after the funeral, and her letter is very specific. She wanted only us here.”

Jack nodded slowly, the pieces settling into place with a reluctant click.

“You’re probably right,” he murmured. Then, with a slow shake of his head, equal parts amusement and quiet reverence, he added, “Knowing Magda, being the crafty old bat that she was, it honestly wouldn’t surprise me if she orchestrated this whole thing from beyond the grave, just to make sure we stayed in touch. One final meddle for the road.”

Cara’s lips curved, her expression softening like parchment in heat.

“I’m not sure she’d appreciate being remembered as an old bat, but you’re not wrong.”

Her eyes held his for a beat, steady and unflinching, then, as if remembering something half-saved, she reached into her bag. There was a brief rustle, deliberate but unhurried, before she drew out a small, neatly wrapped package. No tag. No flourish. Just brown paper and string, tidy in that way, only things wrapped with real care ever were.

She handed it to him with a smile that barely surfaced but carried weight all the same.

“Happy belated birthday.”

Jack blinked, caught somewhere between surprise and something he didn’t have the words for. He turned the package over in his hands, as if it might come with instructions.

“I… I’m… I don’t know what to say,” he stammered. “You really shouldn’t have.” He hesitated, eyes dipping. “I never got you anything,” he said at last. “Didn’t even…” He trailed off.

No excuses followed. None would’ve fit.

The realisation sat heavy in his chest: not just that he’d forgotten, but that remembering hadn’t even occurred to him. And that, somehow, felt worse.

Cara just smiled, unbothered, or perhaps, more truthfully, willing to let him off the hook without making it feel like forgiveness.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said, her tone light. “I didn’t expect anything in return. I was just rummaging through some old things the other day and found it. Just open it. You’ll understand.”

Jack peeled away the wrapping slowly, as if speed might lessen the impact of whatever it was she’d placed inside. Beneath the paper, cushioned gently against the folds, sat a modest picture frame. Nothing ornate. Simple wood. Familiar.

The breath caught in his throat before he realised he’d stopped breathing.

Inside the frame: a photograph. The four of them, himself, Cara, Logan, and Magda, all grinning like idiots on the front steps of Magda’s old cottage. Someone had clearly just told a joke. Their mouths were mid-laugh, Logan’s hands were blurred from movement, Magda’s hair was wild in the breeze. Jack could almost hear the shriek of the shutter going off too soon, the second after they’d finally figured out how the auto-timer worked. Third attempt. Maybe fourth. The failed ones were just as good, but this was the one that made the mantle.

“It’s not much…” Cara began quietly.

Jack shook his head, cutting her off before she could finish. His voice was taut, strained with something too big to fit into a sentence.

“It’s perfect.”

His fingers curled gently around the frame, as though to anchor himself to it. A trembling smile threatened at the edges of his mouth, unsteady but real.

“God, I miss it,” he breathed, the words escaping before he could stop them. He blinked hard, one hand swiping quickly at his eyes. “I miss her.”

“We all do,” Cara said, stepping in without hesitation, her arms wrapping around him in another hug that didn’t ask permission and didn’t need to.

Jack held the frame out to the side, turning it gently toward her.

“Forgot how much taller Logan was back then,” he said, managing a small laugh.

“You know,” Cara began, her tone shifting to something lighter on the surface, but carrying the weight of something about to drop. “I had a video call with Logan a couple of weeks ago.”

She paused just long enough for Jack to brace.

“And aside from his newfound tech skills, let me tell you—”

“He hit his growth spurt early, stopped growing the second we all split up, and now we’re both taller and more muscular than he is?” Jack interrupted, eyes hopeful, tone practically pleading.

Cara burst into laughter, the kind that crinkled at the corners and left no room for polite restraint.

Before she could reply, the low growl of an approaching engine rolled in through the trees.

“Speak of the devil,” she said, her grin spreading wry and wide as she turned toward the sound. “I think you’ll see for yourself.”

They stepped beyond the treeline together, the grass damp beneath their boots, and came to a slow, synchronised stop.

There, parked awkwardly at the edge of the clearing, sat a vintage Mini Cooper, early ’90s, off-white, and utterly dwarfed by the figure unfolding from its interior like some kind of logistical magic trick.

Logan.

Now a tower of a man, broad as a barn and, judging by Jack’s quick estimation, dangerously close to seven feet tall.

Jack blinked.

The contrast was absurd, like watching a grizzly bear emerge from a shoebox.

“How in the…”

He didn’t get to finish.

“Little brother!” Logan roared, spotting him with the glee of someone who’d clearly prepared his volume for outdoor use.

In an instant, Jack was airborne, scooped into a rib-crushing bear hug that lifted him clear off the ground and left his spine politely protesting every vertebra.

“It’s been too long!” Logan bellowed, his voice reverberating through the trees with all the subtlety of a brass band.

“Hi, Logan,” Cara laughed, grinning as she watched the chaos unfold. “How was the drive?”

“Horrible,” Logan admitted, finally releasing Jack, who promptly collapsed in the damp grass like a felled tree, wheezing theatrically.

“I was meant to borrow Greg’s pickup,” he continued, already launching into the tale with the gusto of a man who’d suffered just enough to make it funny. “But of course, he gets called away last minute, and I’m left with Christine’s Mini.”

He nodded toward the car with a look of profound betrayal. “The thing's about as practical as a teacup on wheels. No power steering, windows you have to wind, and suspension that I’m fairly certain gave up over a decade ago. Climbing that last hill felt like a game of chicken with gravity. I genuinely considered getting out and pushing.”

“Oh dear, that bad, huh?” Cara giggled, her voice a mix of sympathy and unrepentant amusement.

Logan rolled his shoulders, grinning as he shrugged off the memory like mud from his boots. “Yeah, but it’s done. I live to drive another day.”

Then, as if remembering why he was here, his grin widened. “On the upside, it’s bloody brilliant to see you both. How are things? How long’s it been?”

Jack, still half-folded on the ground and catching his breath like he’d just run a marathon uphill, gave a choking cough. “Just about scraping by,” he managed. “And about three years, give or take.”

“Three years!” Logan echoed, eyes going wide. “Can you believe that? Time really does fly when you’re busy pretending adulthood’s going fine.”

Jack pushed himself to his feet. “Well, time’s not the only thing flying. Looks like you’ve been growing at roughly the same speed.”

Logan glanced down at himself—at the limbs that now seemed to belong to someone built for lugging furniture or wrestling gorillas—and shrugged like it was no big deal.

“Doctor reckons I’ve got another year. Maybe two. Possibly three.”

Jack blinked. “Wait… you’re still growing?”

“Doesn’t look like I’m done,” Logan said cheerfully, returning to the Mini and popping the boot with the air of a man who’d just made peace with his absurd proportions. He pulled out a tent, large, heavy, and, at a glance, designed to house at least four people.

Jack squinted. On second thought, Logan probably counted as four people.

Still, Logan hoisted it with ease and ambled toward the clearing.

Upon reaching the space where Cara’s tent sat, now fully assembled by Jack, he paused. His brow furrowed, eyes flicking between the single shelter and the two of them. Then, with the delicacy of a sledgehammer, he turned and gestured, one finger at Jack, one at Cara, then at the tent.

“I know you two were always close,” he said slowly, “but you’re not… You know…”

The implication hovered in the air like a poorly timed fart.

Cara flushed deep crimson, while Jack, caught entirely off guard, let out a strangled sound.

“No way! Of course not,” he blurted. Then, desperate for cover, he spun on his heel and marched back toward his abandoned car, muttering something about “forgot the tent.”

“Good,” Logan called after him, visibly relieved. “I mean, yeah, I know we’re not technically related, but still… it’d be a bit weird if you two were, you know…”

“A bit weird doesn’t even begin to cover it,” Cara snapped, arms folded tight across her chest like she was bracing for an impact.

Jack paused mid-step, noting the look of disgust that came with Cara’s words as he looked back, her expression hitting sharper than it should have.

Strange, sure. They’d grown up together, after all. But disgust? That stung. Especially considering the first thing he’d thought upon seeing her again, all sweaty, snarling and tangled in tent poles, was God, she looks good.

The silence that followed was thick, awkward, and thoroughly unwelcome.

Thankfully, Logan, either oblivious or deliberately playing the fool, clapped his hands with all the enthusiasm of a camp counsellor and cut straight through it.

“Anyway!” Logan declared. “Shall we get set up and start a fire? After that nightmarish clown car experience, I need two things: food in my belly and a beer in my hand. Then we can officially commence the time-honoured tradition of bullying Jack.” He turned, ignoring Jack’s scowl, then pulled up short.

There, half-hidden in the grass, lay the framed photograph Jack had dropped during their bone-cracking reunion.

Logan bent down and picked it up.

“Good lord,” he grinned, holding it up. “Look at this old gem.”

Jack looked over, heart squeezing a little as he saw the photo again, Cara, Logan, himself, and Magda caught in that perfect, unscripted moment.

“That was taken just before our last trip up here,” Cara said quietly. “Before… well. You know.”

For a moment, the clearing felt heavier. The weight of that before settled over them like a second dawn.

Logan’s grin faltered, the mischief fading from his eyes to be replaced with something slower and more careful. He nodded once, then walked over to one of the logs flanking the fire pit and gently placed the frame down.

“It’ll be almost like she’s still here with us,” he said, voice cracking slightly, before he cleared his throat, turned briskly and set to building his tent.

“Almost,” Cara whispered, barely more than a breath.

Jack looked at the photo again.

“Yeah... Almost.”