Chapter 259
Adir sat silently, his head bowed, hands tightly folded together, lips moving without sound. The quiet weight of his grief pressed down on his small frame, though not a single tear had escaped his eyes.
Beside him, Adam sat still, staring straight ahead at nothing in particular.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Adam glanced sideways at the boy. Adir hadn’t moved in nearly ten minutes. His shoulders were rigid, his posture frozen, and the blank, distant look on his face made Adam feel just as lost as he had when he’d been that age — when he’d lost his own father and grandfather.
Adam shifted slightly in his seat, searching for words that might help the little boy. But nothing seemed to come to him. He sighed and then spoke softly,unsure if the boy had heard him or not.
“You don’t have to do it alone. I’m right here.”
Adir gave no sign that he had heard him.
Adam leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He spoke again, more gently this time. “He would’ve wanted you to be okay. You know that, right?”
Still, Adir didn’t respond.
Adam hesitated. Then, without thinking too much, he placed a hand lightly on Adir’s back. “I’m not trying to take his place, you know that. I know I can’t. But I’ll be here for you. However you need me. However long it takes.Okay?”
For the first time, Adir’s hands unclasped slightly. He didn’t lift his head or speak, but the rigidness in his posture seemed to ease, just enough for Adam to notice.
And for now, that was enough. He simply let his hand rest there.
After a long pause, Adir spoke softly, “Father told me that you lost one father too…”
Adam stilled. He hadn’t expected Patrick to talk about him — at least, not that part. He rarely spoke or even thought about his own childhood. Not because he had anything to hide, but because that brief window – those early years before the Collins household – had been the happiest of his life. Remembering them too clearly only reminded him of what he had lost.
“Yeah,” Adam said, exhaling slowly. “My father and my grandfather. I lived with them till I was eight.”
Adir turned slightly, just enough for Adam to see the side of his face. “Did you forget them? Do you still remember?”
Adam went quiet at the question, wondering if he should be truthful or not. But then gave a soft laugh — not because the question was funny, but because it struck so close to home.
“I remember them… but it’s strange. I think I’ve forgotten their faces a little. Not completely, but… they’ve gone blurry in my head. Like an old photograph that’s faded.”
He paused, eyes distant now, as if searching through time. “But I remember their smiles. That part’s still clear. The way they looked at me when I did something stupid. Or when I got excited about something small. That feeling -it’s still here. And the way they always caught me if I jumped.
He tapped his chest lightly, just above his heart and said, “Even if I can’t see them clearly anymore, I know they’re always in my thoughts. Like… like they never really left.”
Adir slowly turned his face toward him, his eyes glassy as he whispered his fear,
“Do you think I’ll forget too?” he asked quietly.
Adam looked at him, his voice steady now. “You might forget some things. That’s normal. But not the important parts. The parts that made you feel safe. The things that made you love him. Those stay with you, even when the details fade.”
Adir looked down again, hands now resting in his lap instead of clenched. His lips parted slightly, as if he might say something more – but didn’t. Instead, he leaned ever so slightly closer to Adam, not enough to touch, but enough for the gesture to be clear.
Adam didn’t move or say anything. He just sat there, hand still resting on the boy’s back. Adir was quiet again, his gaze lowered, brows faintly furrowed in thought. The silence between them didn’t feel heavy this time. As though something delicate had shifted.
Then, without a word, Adir slowly pushed himself to his feet. Adam straightened slightly, unsure of what the boy was about to do. But Adir didn’t go far. He took one small step forward, then turned, and without asking, quietly climbed into Adam’s lap. He tucked himself close, small arms curling in as he pressed his face beneath Adam’s chin and against his chest.
Adam wrapped his arms around him without hesitation, startled at how he fit in his arms so well.
“I don’t want to forget him,” Adir said, his voice muffled by Adam’s shirt. “I really, really don’t.”
Adam closed his eyes and rested his chin lightly on the boy’s head. “Then don’t,” he said gently.
Adir didn’t respond, just nestled in tighter.
Adam kept his voice low, steady. “Let’s make a promise, you and me.”
The boy shifted a little in his lap, listening.
“We’ll keep him with us. Not just here—” he tapped Adir’s chest with a finger, “—but also… out loud. In the things we do. In how we remember him.”
He paused to let that settle, brushing a hand softly over Adir’s back.
“Let’s make this day about him. Just him and you. We’ll watch those videos he took — the ones where he’s making pancakes with you and messing up the batter.” He gave a soft chuckle. “The ones where he’s laughing so loud the camera shakes.”
Adir gave the smallest huff of a breath — not quite a laugh, but close.
“We’ll look at photos, and you can tell me stories about him,” Adam continued. “You can tell me how he used to read to you, or what he cooked, or how he tucked you in. And we’ll light that silly candle he always forgot to blow out on the table.”
Adir stirred a little under his arm.
“Would that be okay?” Adam asked. “If this day became your day for remembering him?”
Adir nodded, still tucked into his chest. “Okay.”
They stayed like that for a long time neither of them in a rush to move.
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