Will would be in the garden. Not yet able to walk far, but further every day, turning his face up to the sun.
Colby began to type, catching phrases like shooting stars. Sunlight and weariness. Heat on Will’s skin. Closed eyes.
And Stephen, one sleeve of that coat pinned up, a new scar across his eyebrow, coming up around the side of the house. Bathed in that same sunlight, surrounded by green grass and growing things.
Will wouldn’t see him right away, not looking. Stephen would pause for an instant, heart too full for another step, and would then keep walking. Straight to his side.
Will, as Colby’s fingers flew, heard the step. Assumed it’d be a servant. Opened both eyes.
Stephen said softly, “Will.”
Colby stopped typing. Drew a breath, let it out. Slowly.
Yes, he thought. Yes.
He
