Chapter 8
Eight
Photographs, like memories, bridge the present and past. The album that beckons Hiram from bed just after five in the morning is not filled with his memories.
They’re Grace’s.
Hiram has never met the woman on the first page, but he’s certain she’s Grace’s mother, because Antaris’s hair curls like hers when it’s wet, and Grace shared the glimmer in her eyes.
The pendant on her shirt catches his attention: a jade frog with citrine eyes.
He suspects it’s the trickster pendant. Other photographs prove its lineage in Grace’s family, a reminder that it won’t pass to Antaris unless by miracle.
Taking the album with him, Hiram boils water for tea and sits on the stool, flipping to the next page.
The first row of pictures makes him stop.
Grace and a newborn Antaris. Exhausted wonder in one frame, joy in the next, her soft smile captured as he yawns.
There are more pictures. Antaris sitting, standing, walking, running.
She documented it all. Hiram keeps staring at the boy’s smile, as contagious as it is unfamiliar.
Intimate and warm, he tries to forge false memories—to be there, to hold him, to name him, to help.
But they crumble like dry dough. He missed everything. A flicker of bitterness surfaces.
He shuts the album and reminds himself of the present. Antaris is still asleep, and Hiram has a few things to accomplish before that changes. He returns the photo album and starts with Antaris’s book bag, which he didn’t unpack last night.
The teacher’s daily report details high scores, completed assignments, and satisfactory behavior. It also notes his struggles. His silence. His isolation. His reluctance to interact with his peers. Her last comment is new.
He’s ready to make a friend.
The wheels in his mind turn as Hiram signs the note and slips it back into the book bag.
He pulls out a few loose papers and finds paintings from art class.
One looks like two trees, one with fruit, one bare.
Another shows at least a dozen stick figures, all drawn with black paint, holding hands.
Their hair is the only difference: two red, two gray, the rest brown and black.
Hiram stares until the kettle whistles, then sticks them to the refrigerator. That’s where he always wanted to put his successes as a kid. It’s fitting.
Antaris is a quarter of the way through breakfast when he notices.
He drops his fork, eyes widening. Hiram doesn’t know if he’s upset or happy, so he says, “If you don’t want them there, I won’t do that again .
. .” Antaris’s expression begins to sour.
“But if you do, it’s fine. You can add whatever you want. ”
A tense silence passes with Hiram internally sweating from second-guessing everything . . .
Antaris runs from the table.
His mother’s voice creeps in. You are doing it wrong. You are making the wrong decisions. I have more experience and am the better choice. Hiram knows it’s a lie, but it’s hard to ignore in the face of defeat.
Without hesitation, he would bend the world for Antaris.
That’s how much he loves him. Strange how fast it happened, how deeply he feels for a child he didn’t know existed six months ago.
Antaris is a choice Hiram made in an instant, one he doesn’t regret, but sometimes, he mourns the simplicity of his old life, when he only had to care about himself.
Those two truths can coexist.
Antaris shyly peers around the corner. Hiram straightens, masking his spiral as his son shuffles in with a stack of papers. His drawings.
Maybe he had it wrong.
One by one, Antaris covers the refrigerator. Little oranges, trees, something that looks like a chicken. When he runs out of reachable space, Hiram plucks magnets from the side and helps him place the rest, adjusting each one until Antaris nods in approval.
Finished, Hiram stands beside Antaris, who peers at him, freckles standing out against the ruddiness of his cheeks. His brows furrow and relax until it clicks what his son is trying to communicate.
“It’s perfect,” Hiram says earnestly. “Thanks for letting me see them.”
There’s a ghost of a smile on his son’s face.
It lingers even as they sit by the pier, feet dangling over the edge.
Wearing the brightest yellow raincoat despite there not being a cloud in the sky, Antaris is color in a muted world.
The water is calm. It’s easy to get lost in the stillness, but Hiram’s mind is loud.
He could block out Veda’s accusatory voice, ignore her words, and live however he wants.
But what about Antaris?
Bigotry complicates his son’s roots. As he grows older, those tangles will turn into knots.
Out of sight, out of mind. That was one of Hiram’s reasons for returning to Proventia.
Simran loves optics too much to admit her grandson has a Seer mother, and Barrett barely talks to anyone.
This allows Hiram to keep Antaris out of the public eye. It’s a good plan, but not foolproof.
One day, Antaris will ask about his father’s initial absence. One day, he’ll see how the world is for people like his mother. Hiram will have answers; he is good at weaving the best ones, but now there’s a growing weight of worry as he wonders if his reasons are good enough.
Unforecasted rain tempers his thoughts, but it does not extinguish them.
Antaris likes herbal tea with breakfast.
The sample boxes have run out, leaving Hiram standing in the grocery store, overwhelmed by choices. He leans toward the pricier loose teas, but grabs two boxes of fruit blends Antaris seemed most eager about.
On his way back to the car, he spots a coffee shop and detours.
The talisman flashes as he enters, but he hardly notices it as the strong scent of coffee pulls at his senses.
It’s crowded with limited seating and music humming beneath the chatter.
Hiram orders a medium coffee and an apple Danish, then immediately regrets not getting both to go when he notices a familiar face at the first table.
Clinton Desai is alone, sipping what looks like tea, cane propped on the wall beside him. “Hello, Hiram Ellis. You are more than welcome to share my table.”
The last thing he wants to do. “No, thank you. I’ll find my own seat.”
Unfortunately, by the time he collects his order, every table is either taken or occupied by people unwilling to share. Hiram sighs. When he takes a seat opposite Clinton, the blind man smiles. “Thank you for meeting me.”
“I’m not meeting you.” Hiram scowls. “In fact, after the spectacle that was the town hall meeting, I’d hoped to never see you again.”
“It seems fate has other plans.”
“No, I randomly decided to come here for coffee.”
“Did you?” The old man doesn’t let the question linger. “Perhaps my invitation to the town hall was not the best course of action. For that, I apologize.”
“What do you want from me?”
“Everything I said at the meeting was true. I believe we could form an alliance. There are things beyond my reach I think you can help bring to light.”
“I’m not the man you think I am.”
“No, you’re not, but you have the potential to be.”
“So, what? You think I’ll hunt down a serial killer?” Hiram almost laughs. “Not only is that ludicrous, it’s insane. Why can’t you use your Sight to find the Botanist?”
“Our magic may not be limited, but our Sight is. Our visions are impacted by free will. I have seen many iterations of you over the years, future flashes that change as you do. I do not know which version will unfold.”
“I’ve already answered the investigators’ questions.”
“This isn’t only about the Botanist. This is about your impact on the world.
I invited you to the meeting so you would see the world beyond the fence you’ve been sitting on.
People are more than objects in your line of sight.
You want to be judged by your character, not your last name? Then look beyond what you know.”
“I’m not here to form alliances. Living here isn’t a permanent plan.”
Clinton looks amused. He finishes his tea, then slides a card across the table. His name and phone number, printed and in braille. “For scheduling our next meeting. Please choose a quieter location. I concentrate better without external distractions.”
“What are you—”
“Until next time, Hiram Ellis.” Clinton reaches for his cane and slowly stands. “You will run forever. No place will be safe until you turn to face what’s chasing you.”
It’s too quiet.
Hiram stops cutting the crust off the sandwich he’s making and goes to find his son.
Antaris has opened the final box. Books cover the floor and bed, but he’s fixated on something in his hand.
It’s a picture of Antaris and Grace in front of a birthday cake, a number-six candle lit.
His birthday was New Year’s Eve, just a month before Grace died.
In the photo, she doesn’t look like time has touched her: smooth, light-brown skin, curly hair, hazel-green eyes, and a bright smile.
Antaris is a perfect combination of their mixed heritage.
For a year after Grace broke things off and disappeared without a trace, questions clouded Hiram’s world.
Eventually, self-reflection gave him clarity.
He doesn’t consider letting her go to be a mistake.
He would never chase someone running from him.
He accepts the blame now, realizing he overestimated how far he’d distanced himself from his family and trusted too easily that it would be enough.
Antaris places the picture on his nightstand.
Hiram sits on the bed beside him, jiggling one knee. “Do you . . .”
Antaris shakes his head.
“If you ever have questions about your mom, or want to hear stories about her, I’ll tell you.”
Until then, Hiram leaves to give him space.