Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
Malcolm
The town looked exactly the same, yet it felt entirely different.
I wasn’t sure what had brought me here—nostalgia, boredom, or some restless part of me that couldn’t stand being in that damn hotel room any longer.
Maybe I was just tired of pretending that this place didn’t matter anymore.
That it wasn’t woven into the deepest parts of me, no matter how much I tried to erase it.
I walked along the familiar pathways of the park, hands shoved into my pockets, my mind drifting back to a time when I used to watch from a distance, too afraid to step inside the world that other kids seemed to belong to so easily.
The playground still had the same swings, the benches still faced the small duck pond, and the old tree near the entrance was still standing tall, its roots stretched out like the veins of the earth itself.
I used to sit under that tree.
Watching. Waiting.
Never participating.
Even after I was adopted, even after my life changed, that feeling had never truly left me. The need to stand at the edges of something, waiting for someone to prove to me that I was allowed inside.
I sighed, shaking my head as if I could physically push the thoughts away. They were useless. I wasn’t that kid anymore. I was Malcolm Sinclair now, a man who had built his own empire, carved out his own place in the world, made damn sure he didn’t need anyone’s permission to belong.
But then why was I here?
I didn’t have an answer.
I kept walking, the air crisp with the promise of nightfall, the sky fading from burnt orange to deep purple. I didn’t expect to see anyone I knew, didn’t expect anything at all, really. But as I rounded the curve near the benches, my gaze landed on a small figure huddled at the base of the tree.
A kid.
Curled up, knees drawn to his chest, his small frame trembling slightly, like he was trying to disappear into himself.
Something in my chest tightened painfully.
I knew that posture. I knew it too well.
I stopped a few feet away, lowering my voice as I spoke. "Hey, kid. You alright?"
The boy flinched hard, his entire body recoiling as if the sound of my voice alone had been enough to send him into full panic mode.
"Don’t touch me," he whispered. "Don’t hurt me."
My heart clenched, a cold rush of recognition washing over me.
I had said those exact words before. More than once. More than I cared to admit.
I kept my stance relaxed, careful not to move too fast or too close. "I’m not gonna do either of those things," I said, keeping my voice even. "I was just passing through."
The boy didn’t look up. His hands gripped his sleeves tightly, his fingers turning white from the pressure. His breathing was fast, too fast, the kind that made your chest lock up and your thoughts spin out of control. He was spiraling.
I recognized the signs immediately.
I had lived them.
I crouched down a few feet away, resting my forearms on my knees, making myself smaller, less threatening. "You don’t have to talk," I said. "But if you want, I can sit here with you for a bit."
No response.
His shoulders were still stiff, his entire body still coiled so tightly it looked like he might snap.
So, I waited.
Minutes passed in silence. I didn’t move, didn’t press him, didn’t ask questions he clearly wasn’t ready to answer. I had been that kid. I knew the only thing worse than feeling trapped was someone trying to force you out of it.
After a while, I glanced up at the sky, watching as the stars started to break through the fading daylight. "I used to sit under a tree like this when I was a kid," I murmured. "Watched everyone else run around like they didn’t have a care in the world."
The boy didn’t react, but he didn’t tense up more, either.
"I used to think I was different from them," I continued, keeping my tone light, distant, like I was just talking to myself. "That I didn’t belong in that world. That even if I tried, no one would want me there anyway."
A small shift.
Barely noticeable.
But I caught it.
I didn’t look at him, didn’t want to make him feel like he was being watched. Instead, I just exhaled and leaned my head back against the tree trunk.
"You ever feel like that?" I asked, casual, as if I didn’t already know the answer.
A long stretch of silence. Then, in the smallest, most hesitant voice, he muttered, "Sometimes."
The ache in my chest deepened.
I nodded, pretending like it wasn’t the most important thing I had heard all day. "Yeah," I said. "It sucks."
Another pause. Then, almost begrudgingly, "Yeah."
I smirked slightly, letting my head roll to the side to glance at him. "Wanna know something, though?"
He didn’t answer, but I continued anyway.
"I was wrong."
His fingers twitched slightly against his sleeves.
I let the words settle before I added, "I thought I didn’t belong anywhere. That no one would ever pick me. And then one day, I realized… maybe I just hadn’t found the right people yet."
He shifted again, his body relaxing just the tiniest bit.
I took that as a win.
"You don’t have to believe me," I added, pushing myself up to lean against the tree, stretching my legs out in front of me. "But just in case you ever start to wonder… maybe it’s not about whether you belong. Maybe it’s about who’s willing to make a place for you."
More silence.
But this time, it felt different.
Lighter.
Less heavy with fear.
The boy finally lifted his head just slightly, enough that I could see the side of his face. He was young—too young to already have that kind of fear in his eyes.
"Did you ever find them?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper.
I blinked, the question catching me off guard.
I thought about it. About the Sinclairs. About Summer. About the people who had tried to carve a place for me, even when I fought against it.
"Yeah," I said after a beat. "I think I did."
The boy didn’t respond, but for the first time since I had found him, he wasn’t shaking anymore.
I stayed where I was, watching as the streetlights flickered on, casting soft pools of light across the pavement. The night settled around us, quiet and still, but he didn’t move away.
He didn’t run.
And for now, that was enough.
So, I stayed.
And I waited.