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Three of them.

Veyr had known they existed.

He had refused to learn their names.

The oldest stared at him with open suspicion. The youngest hid behind his mother.

The middle child walked straight up to Veyr and held out one small hand.

Veyr stared at it. Then crouched. Slowly. Carefully.

The child wrapped tiny fingers around one of his.

Veyr stopped breathing.

I knew that look. Too much feeling. No place to put it.

His sister said the child’s name.

Then the others.

Veyr repeated each one quietly, like committing coordinates to memory.

Only these mattered more.

By the time we left, his mother had fed everyone far too much and given him two boxes of things she insisted belonged to him.

Old clothes.

A carved military token. A blanket. Three books.

Something from his childhood he refused to explain.

He owned more when we left than he had in the previous eight years.

I considered that progress.

Our home still wasn’t finished. That was probably why I loved it.

There were boxes against one wall, one chair that didn’t match anything else, and three cups in the kitchen even though there were only two of us.

Veyr had apparently become attached to buying household items in quantities that suggested permanence.

He denied this. Badly.

His mother had contributed most of the furniture.

His sister contributed opinions.

I contributed too many books.

Veyr had contributed exactly one decorative object, a dark metal sculpture from some old military market.

He claimed it was not decorative. It absolutely was.

I opened the door.

Something scraped across the floor and followed the sound into the living room.