What value came from his time at Hogwarts was among the many burning questions a local therapist requested Thomas to ponder. Navigating through the turmoil to find a silver lining. A daunting pursuit to tread the many aches and pains that accompanied his initial two years. What positive could be derived from mediocre test scores, negative influences, or involuntary kisses?

The question was a constant in his sessions, the so-called mental health professional pressed Thomas to identify the beneficial takeaways. To allow them to provide a foundation of building blocks upon which he recreated his perspective and approached a new direction. Among these building blocks was an insistence from his mother. As a goal oriented individual, she did her due diligence, giving Thomas an outline for his next year at Hogwarts. And if the boy did not agree to these terms, he would not return.

Sometimes not having a choice was for the best. His mother set into motion a year that looked much different for the boy, initiated by his application and recent acceptance as a house representative. A prefect as they called it, looked upon to set the example and lay down the standards for his peers. In addition, to further activate the boy’s mind an emphasis was placed on his studies. Biweekly reports of his scores,

Still, Thomas completed each task as requested to ensure he would return to the school. Encompassing enthusiasm came from the new responsibilities, assisting to help the old troubles fade into the background. Though not gone, due to return one day. At a time where he would reach for his mother’s guidance and only find emptiness.

As the summer went on and this plan materialized, the question remained: What did Thomas Lestrange value? One thought rotated, but the boy would not care to admit it. Out of fear it would be mistaken for infatuation. For once, he was not in denial. It was not a love story, no, it was understanding. Sourced from common ground, mutual respect, and pain. The only person the boy would consider a friend. Santario Martin.

Thomas never did admit it to his mother, or the therapist he regularly saw. Yet they still had an impact, helping the boy to define what he valued and what was worth his time. It’s what led to the quill in his hand an afternoon prior to a trip northeast of his home in New Romney. In the off chance their paths would cross, he made the decision he would like to see her again before the next semester.

Santario,

My mother and I will be traveling to Dartford next weekend, just west of London. I don’t know if this intersects with the trip you mentioned. If you are in town, I’d prefer to see you. We’ll be staying just south of Darent Valley Hospital. Write back if you’d like to agree on a place to meet. Otherwise, during the daytime hours you can find me at the ice rink near Bluewater Centre. I hope

Thomas Lestrange

Santario stared at his letter far longer than she had intended to before she picked up her blue quill dipping it into her emerald green ink and allowing her words to flourish across the page. The T in Thomas would look bolder than the rest of her letters, and she had to stop herself from writing Reaper. San didn’t know how he got his mail, and she was confident that would raise an interesting inquiry if his mother read it before he got it.

Dearest Thomas,

As kismet as it may seem, that is where my trip is centered around. I have a day or two where my grandparents will be far too busy with their affairs, leaving me free. I know that town like I know the very breath that I breathe, and I will find you.

Respectfully,

Santario Martin

Santario had already been anxious about her trip as it would be the first time coming back to her hometown since her parent’s funeral. She didn’t know how to feel but tried for numb as the days felt like they took forever to pass. However, the days did pass as they are oft to do, and before she knew it, they were in Dartford again, and Santario had felt run through with a double edge blade. It was hard visiting the home you grew up where she should still be growing up; her lighthearted laughter should be filling the halls of this home, but instead, it was cold and empty. They would not stay long before she was shuttled off to their hotel.

It would be the next day that she found herself dressed in a sleeveless, black peplum blouse with a chiffon overlay, black cuffed pants, black shoes, and her locket. She laid down a bouquet of Orchids, one on each headstone, symbolizing that she would always love them. A symbol that she hoped they somehow knew. From there, however, she did not go back to her hotel because if San had, she would have broken her promise and instead would have self-isolated and wallowed in her own misery. No, today she would keep her promise.

And this is why she found herself right now staring at the outside of the ice rink at Blue Water Centre. Taking in a deep breath and running her fingers through her hair, making sure that she was as presentable as her grandmother would want her to be before walking up to the doors and pushing them open. She would navigate her way through the entrance stopping to pay if necessary, with one of her grandmother’s plastic cards, searching every face she came across for the only one that mattered.

Nobody would know if it was fate or coincidence that led Santario to naturally cross Thomas’ path again during this helter-skelter summer. There was no certainty he would even see her again after the brief exchange where the pair found humor in grim circumstances. What else could students at Hogwarts do, but look to each other and laugh at the next episode of delirium. Perhaps it was the early respective tragedies that brought them together, on their way to be seasoned veterans in anguish.

I will find you. Neason vibes aside, Santario has kept her word with Thomas thus far. Her emphasis on honesty and loyalty was just another reason in a line of many that supported this unlikely harmony. Giving the boy no reason to return an owl, trusting she would seek him out at the location he provided if she wanted to.

Thomas did not alter his routine, making for the ice rink at the opening hours each morning. Losing himself along the cold surface for several hours. Fighting the urge to don his old pads and participate in a drop-in hockey match. Careful not to tread too closely to those damaging nostalgic feelings that would have him unravel in the past. He sported a clean look, black chino shorts with a long white-t shirt.

The rink was sparsely populated, idle skaters here and there. A soft tune could be heard through the speakers that hang near local banners. The rink was smaller than regulation size, more closely resembling that of a pond rink. It didn't take many strides for Thomas to complete a full pass around. His icy blue eyes intermittently finding the entrance doors, hopefully awaiting the moment he’d see a familiar face. A person that had awareness of who he was, and his internal battles. As much as he loved his mother, there were some things he was not willing to share, fearful she would not allow his return to the castle.

It was quite obvious that it was Santario that passed through the doors in all black attire, perhaps doing her best impression of Thomas the night they were officially acquainted. The boy took several strides towards the rink’s entryway. The thick glass exterior had a door that was permanently left open during the public skate hours. Thomas stopped, sending a spray of ice along the black rubber mats that surrounded the rink. A barrier between concrete that would not damage the fine skate blades. Thomas stepped off the ice and onto this rubber surface, leaning against the glass as he awaited her approach. Notably

"I see we're swapping roles.” Thomas spoke mostly stoically, but a faint squint of his blue eyes would imply he was happy to see her. “On your way to a funeral?” Thomas opted to...break the ice(we all knew it was coming). Though as he took in her sapphire eyes, there was a chill that extended beyond the rink, but the boy would not be able to place why. “Ever skated before?”

She wasn’t sure how she was currently feeling torn from the sorrow that gripped her heart, but joyous to see someone that she had so shortly, if not hesitantly, started to consider a friend. Her eyes' very corners were just slightly red, hardly still noticeable, and the slight blotchiness that remained on her skin could be attributed to the cold of the rink. The truth was Santario had a terrible cry face; it was not pretty. Eyes became terribly bloodshot, her fair complexion marred with red blotches, and man did her nose become a snot machine. She was just thankful that the red about her face had subsided as much as it had by the time she had gotten here.

It wouldn’t take long for her to find the odd one out in the sense of movement as he made his way towards the rink’s edge and propped himself against the side like a sculpture. A playful smirk formed at the corners of her lips as she approached him. Was he aware of the presence he exuded? Even in a t-shirt and shorts, he could probably still command a room's attention if he felt so inclined, such potential.

Switching roles? Ah, yes, the ball the comparison was quite unintentional though more fitting than he might have assumed. She looked away from him downwards and to the left, a hand running through her tresses as an awkward fidget before looking back at him. “Not a funeral, Reaper, just visiting my ghosts of Christmas past, you could say. Her eyes dropped to his bladed feet before looking back up to his face, the added height making him extraordinarily taller than she was. “I-…No. Is it hard? I’m fine just watching; honestly, it’s what I do best after all.” She tried to hide the nervousness of strapping on skates with a small laugh, but a lower lip bite would betray her.

She might have grown up here, but something like skating at a public rink, falling and getting hurt? For a child with unstable magic in a place full of muggles? No, that would have been out of the question for her. Her parents found other ways to occupy her time with puzzles, games, books, and just about anything that kept her away from muggle children. Always making observations from a distance and never getting to truly experience the life around her that she loved to watch.

As Thomas took in the visual of his Slytherin counterpart, her visage held visible notes of despair. Much like he, her internal emotions were rarely on display. Perks of a seasoned victim of pain. Over time, it becomes an expectation. Subduing a weighted release of sorrow, replaced with emptiness. Well, here we are again. Thomas would not miss it. The red stains that contrasted the girl’s sapphire hues.

The boy may appear imposing in his ice skates, adding the equivalent the most grandiose high heels would to his height. It only assisted in detecting that red tint in her eyes, as she looked up into the fluorescent lights of the indoor rink. Still, Thomas was hesitant to comment. He remembered their understanding, not to press. If Santario wanted to discuss the pain behind those eyes, she would offer this information on her own accord.

Not much patience was required. Santario mended his curiosity with the only hint needed. He recalled her declaration on a rainy day in a dark room. “My parents were murdered on Christmas Eve.” Thomas turned his head slightly, eyes finding the black rubber foundation they stood on. “Was this your home?” His mind jogged back further to recall her response letter, mentioning this town was beyond familiar to her.


The boy’s expression neutral, pressing his lips together as he peered over his shoulder to view the ice. “Only if you’re afraid to fall.” It was easy for Thomas to say, having been a regular on the ice from a young age. “Suit yourself.” He nodded towards a desk near the doors she entered. Behind the desk stood a teenage boy, the only visible staff member beside a disgruntled zamboni driver with pants that hung far too low. He would occasionally patrol the outskirts, urging skaters to get off the ice before doing his sweep.

“Skate rentals are cheap enough, not that you appear to be lacking for money.” Thomas smirked with a gentle shrug. “They don’t take galleons, though.” His eyes flickered over to the skate handler. “Well, he might. Shiny enough.” The boy flashed a rare smile before turning away from Santario. “If not, just a few more passes and I’ll be off.” With a nod, the boy returned to the ice with a few long strides. Contemplating how he would approach the sensitive topics on his mind, and if he even wanted to.

Santario swallowed hard when he asked her if this was her home… Not anymore she thought as she nodded her head in response to his question. Emotions were raw here, and she wasn’t sure she could answer that question and trust her voice at the same time. Let’s not fall apart at the ice rink, yeah?

She looked over at the skate rental kid when he was mentioned before turning her gaze back to Thomas. “I suppose I’m not.” A offhanded comment about not being hard up for money. It was true, but it was also something she tried not to flaunt, besides her clothing, which was hardly her choice in the first place. It would be why in Hogwarts, when not in her school robes, he would see her in t-shirts, jeans, and converse. However, out here in the real world, she wore what she was told. It reminded her about how her grandfather called her his little finch. A cage was still a cage no matter how gilded it was, and finches were birds that did not migrate. Did Santario’s situation make her grandfather sad? Perhaps, but the girl did not know for sure how much on her side he was since he was not the household ruler. Afterall he did take her grandmother’s name. Something Santario was in constant argument with her grandmother about… Santario de Clairmont just didn’t sound right to her.

When Thomas smiled so did, she. Santario was well aware that smiles and laughter were infections with her; it was the part of her that longed to be happy again making its show. Which was a pity that it happened so rarely as her genuine smiles really did make her eyes sparkle and brighten up her face. Her laughter was the pleasant tune of bells in the air. Someday, maybe, it could happen more. “I’ll try… Life isn’t worth living if you hide all the time.” It was the raw truth that she allowed fear to make some of her decisions, but sometimes she knew how to be brave. Besides, who was here to see her fall? Thomas? What could he do? Go around saying to fell a thousand times her first time putting on skates? Sure, but she wasn’t worried about him.

As he returned to the ice, she made her way to the rental counter and produced a plastic card from a small pocket in her blouse, giving her shoe size to the attendant. With the card returned to her pocket and the pair of skates in her hands, she sat down on a bench close to the rink entrance and slipped out of her booties. She stared for a moment at the lacings on the skates, these were not the same as shoes, but she figured they were similar enough to her converse that she tightened them the same way. She felt how they gave her an equivalent amount of ankle support as she very wobblily stood up. A few very shaky steps later, and she had her hands on the rink's half wall.

A deep breath would be taken as she slowly lowered one foot onto the ice and then the other, still holding on to the half wall for dear life. She started to let go. “Okay, this isn't so bad.” She mumbled to herself, but when she tried to glide her feet forward and back a little to try and figure out how to move, she very ungracefully stumbled like a newborn doe learning how to walk for the first time. Her hands flew back to the half wall to keep her upright, and then the sting of French left her mouth. “Yes, try skating, sure great idea. Dummy. You don’t know how to do this, and now you are standing here making a damn fool out of yourself. This was a great idea. I’m going to break an ankle”

When we know others are watching, what changes within? Sheer transparency is rare, especially amongst adolescents. We want to impress, to present the best side of ourselves. The human condition isn’t so complex, is it? The desire to be respected, appreciated, and loved. It is enough to combat the voids inevitably opened from your losses, or those that attempt to undo you. But without consistent reciprocation, one may forget. They will begin to reject those feelings until they are empty. And if they arrive again, no sensation follows--only indifference.

Thomas was not there yet. His gentle tread in that direction was countered by his mother’s embrace upon his return home. A long awaited moment, serving as a reset button to derail the tracks. This train would go no further, at least not in that direction. Santario’s presence offered an air of familiarity, a potential shoulder to lean to assist in the right direction. She flashed a rare smile, but something was off. Though the source for her heightened emotional state was not easily detected. If the boy wanted to know, he would have to ask.


Whether she intended to or not, Santario had a knack for statements that directly applied to Thomas. Her many quotable lines reflected an understanding beyond her years. If she looked close enough, she would notice his blue eyes dart away from her to the floor. A few repetitive nods before the boy continued off to skate. “I’ll see you out there.”

Thomas took a few short strides before opening his hips to pick up speed. The cool waft of air left his clothes fluttering. He would close his eyes to revel in the many fond memories. As one may guess, they were much more consistent during life before Hogwarts. When he opened his eyes again, he saw the noirette gripping the wall with short leg movements. An oversight on his end, perhaps, to think she would step onto the ice for her first time like Michelle Kwan would have. A soft chuckle escaped his lips before he made his approach.

“Sometimes hiding is easier.” There was a slight curl of the lips that reflected his amusement. “For one, your skates are far too loose.” Thomas motioned back to the entryway. If Santario chose to follow his lead, he would follow behind her--helping her off the ice if needed. Avoiding any physical touching if he could, just a hand on her shoulder if she began to wobble. The boy led her to the bleachers, kneeling down to tend to her skates.

He went through the rows of laces atop each skate, pulling them tightly--at times possibly causing her foot to leave the ground from the force. Her ankles would likely feel suffocated as he pulled tightest at the top, before looping them together into a knot. “The tighter the better, even if it hurts.” He smacked the toe of her left skate in a rough, yet playful manner. “Ready to give it another go, then?”

Thomas rose, turning back towards the opening. He stepped backwards, still eyeing Santario. “Not saying I’m an expert, but…” The heel of his skate blade skimmed the barrier between the black mats and ice rink before he could complete his boasting, sending him to collapse backwards on his arse. A fall that may have been a slight embellishment, or at least that’s what Thomas would insist.

With a hint of shame staining his expression, he regained his legs and leaned against the rink wall, awaiting Santario to step back onto the rink. “You don’t want to lift your feet, as if you’re walking. Keep them as low to the ice as you can.” He offered a coaching tip, watching as Santario reemerged for take two.

If anything, Santario was stubborn, always trying to do things without anyone’s help first. Determined to prove that she was not worthless or unworthy of those she held closest to her. Preserving the façade of not caring about their opinions of her when she did because in the end, only those she called her friends mattered, and San felt to keep them close to had to prove herself, even if she was continually holding them at arm’s length whether it was to protect her or to protect them she wasn’t sure yet. There wasn’t a day that went by that Santario didn’t ask herself if she would be willing to sacrifice them to get what she wanted, would she walk away from them, let them get hurt, or die just to get her revenge? She asked herself this question every day, and still, she could not give herself an answer. They, with all of their own faults, instabilities, and questionable abilities in contract making, were still too good for her.

Santario's muttering in French was halted when his voice hit her ears, causing her eyes to snap up to his face with a look of slight embarrassment. “Maybe, I don’t want to hide anymore.” The look in her eyes shifted for a moment to a devastating realization but also an absolute determination. She had been hiding and what her mother would call wasting her life. Sure it had only been eight months of it, but the people she was hiding from already found her, so what was the point? Now it was time to show them that she had wildfire burning through her veins, and she was ready to watch their world rein down in ashes. “ I-oh… They looked like they laced like my converse so I just went with it.” It probably didn’t help that she was clueless about skates and more than likely not strong enough to get them as tight as she needed them. When Thomas motioned towards the entryway, she tightened her grip on the half wall and slowly turned herself around before pulling herself to the opening and carefully stepping in on wobbly feet. At least if the girl was something, it was somewhat resourceful. She would hold her arms slightly out for balance as she waddled over to the bleachers and sat down where Thomas indicated, watching him intensely absorbing what he did like a dry sponge desperate for water.

She watched as his fingers nimbly undid the tie of the laces, fingers that had done this, no doubt, thousands of times. She didn’t resist as he pulled the laces with force enough to lift her foot off the ground at times as he suffocated her ankles in the material of the skate. He smacked the toe of her skate, causing her to chuckle and nod. “No pain, no gain, right?” She responding, giving him a punctuated nod that she was indeed ready. She would rise up with him already feeling that she had more control and more stability than before. It seemed like the skate's tightness had allowed her more balance, and she no longer looked like a little penguin trying to waddle around. She hadn’t been listening to Thomas, marveling in the newly acquired balance, but his fall immediately brought her attention to him a look of concern on her face. She had moved as quickly as she could to attempt to help him up, but before she could really do a thing, he was already back on his feet.

Santario, for his sake, would decide to pretend it never happened as she grabbed at the half wall and very slowly set the blade of her skate on the ice shortly followed by the other. She nodded as he spoke about what she should do with her feet, so looking down, San very hesitantly let go of the wall, her hand trembling just slightly, as she stood still staring at her feet. “Okay, I can do this.” She said to herself but louder than intended as she lifted a skate just a hair off of the ice and applied a small amount of pressure. As she moved forward only slightly, her hands went up, palms down, helping to keep her balance as she wavered. Next, she would try the other foot and do a little more pressure to move more than just an inch on the ice keeping her hands out for balance.

This statement transcended a trivial moment of intimacy with the ice surface. Behind those sapphire blues, Thomas sensed the conflict. What leads us to hide, was it rejection? Social norms ensure a healthy dose of rejection during adolescence that carries into adult life. It does not feel good to be turned away--a dance, a sport, from your parents. Being told no molds our reluctance to take chances, and to remain unwavering when we present ourselves. To the point it is no longer them telling us no, but ourselves.

To be in a fixed state of damage control is not a good way to be. Hiding yourself away, minimizing the crushing blows of life. Until we are empty, devoid of growth, a drifter. Of course, this is not a description of the girl across Thomas Lestrange. Her pain ran deeper than rejection, it was loss. The boy remained silent as he knotted her laces. Maybe you shouldn’t--he wanted to say, though avoided the hypocritical statement. Giving her skate boot a robust tap before leading her back to the ice.

A rare exchange of smiles preceded their return to ice. It was a refreshing development, to share a laugh--a smile. To escape the horror that encompasses the Hogwarts campus, even if only for a day. Thomas took a few short strides, placing his hip against the glass exterior in a fixed stance. Now the observer, as Santario fought her upper body with slow strides. Wobbling, but moving forward nonetheless. If Santario looked the boy’s way, he would offer a nod of encouragement.

Rarely would one’s initial strides across the icy surface appear graceful. Santario was no exception, albeit not the worst Thomas has seen. The boy took leisurely strides near the boards, staying aside Santario amidst her balancing act. “You’re doing well. Eyes forward, not down. Keep your weight towards your toes, not heels.” Thomas echoed familiar instructions from his old coach.

As Santario neared her first lap around the rink, a buzzer of finality reverberated through the arena’s foundations, leaving the few other skaters to coast towards the exits. The boy’s blue eyes found the scoreboard, displaying zeros on the clock to signify the session has ended. A man with a hitch in his step and disgruntled expression emerged from the front desk towards a metal garage door in the rink’s back corner. The rumbling gears turned to elevate the door, revealing what is commonly known as a zamboni.

“Seems your lesson is over.” With a grimace of disappointment, the boy motioned towards one of the exits 20 yards away. “After you.” Thomas nodded towards the exit, trailing Santario in their approach to the exit. Though this zamboni driver would not see it this way. After entering the driver’s seat, the man drove forward across a stretch of pavement between the garage and rink. He halted, eyeing the last two remaining skaters--Santario and Thomas.

The two were in no hurry, not to pose an inconvenience, but to preserve the girl from a fall. The driver would not see it that way, a weighted palm found his horn consecutively, followed by a bark. “OFF the ice!” Thomas' head snapped in the direction of the commotion, offering a narrow-eyed glare. “Take your time, San.” Without any further words, the boy skated away from her side and towards the impatient grump.

Thomas did a few circles to pick up speed before approaching the man in a bee line. He stopped harshly, sending a spray of ice towards the machine’s front. The boy initially silent in his deadpan glare, all to be heard was the machine’s gentle hum. “Are you slow?” The man spat from his high chair above Thomas. “Time’s up, kid.” The man’s tone softened, though still underlined with disrespect. “Session’s over at noon, we still have five minutes.” The man would scoff with a muted chuckle, shaking his head. “It’s over when I zam. Don’t make this a bigger problem than it is.”

Shifting his feet on the ice surface, Thomas glanced back towards Santario. She may have been off the ice by now, or nearing the exit. Perhaps she followed him towards the driver. Regardless of where she was, it would not affect his decision. “What, going to run me over?” A silly prospect, as the machine does not exceed even ten miles per hour. As the boy saw it, he held the advantage. The driver was not sporting skates, if he elected to pursue Thomas it would have to be atop his machine.

From his side, the driver retrieved what appeared to be a walkie-talkie, spouting out a request for security to handle the Slytherin youth. A decision Thomas did not let pass without criticism. “Can’t handle me yourself? Is that why this is your job?” The boy’s lips curled up, a flicker of amusement that was met with the man’s tightening grip on the wheel and a huff. “I’m gone.” With a smile, the boy turned away, coasting towards the exit.

If Santario was now off the ice, Thomas would find a spot next to her to begin untying his skate laces. Omit this development if Santario remains on the ice with Thomas.

When you're hurting and suffering, all anyone wants is just a moment to forget. We want to ignore the ache in our chest because we feel a hole where our hearts are. We want to forget that the night is lonelier, colder, and deathly quiet. We want to forget that every breath we breathe is like choking down embers that cause hot rivers to run from our eyes. After the moment is over, we know the pain will come rushing back to us like water breaking from a dam, but we do it anyway. Because we can pretend that we are happy again even if it is only for the one elusive moment.

This was that moment as she watched her feet glide, not beautifully, across the ice. She would glance up at Thomas to receive a nod of encouragement, to which she would nod back with determination. The reminder to keep her eyes up and not on her feet made her look upwards. She stiffened and remained a little slow trying to repress the urge to watch her feet. Keeping her weight forward was the easy part. “Like dancing, well for girls anyway. I assume guys do as well, but your weight should always be on the ball of your foot. It makes you look like you are gliding and gives you full control of your movements.” As she started speaking, she wasn’t overthinking her movement, and she picked up just the tiniest bit of speed, but nothing of actual note.

When the buzzer went off, the poor girl nearly jumped out of her skin, causing herself to cast her arms out for balance. “I-… Okay.” Was that a pout? Their session was done, and while she wasn’t fast or good at it, she felt like she was just starting to get the hang of it. She had hoped to go around the second time without being so close to the wall. So, yes, she was pouting. She started making her way to the exit in her slow way, not wanting to fall and hurt herself right at the end when someone on a powertrip with a stick shoved up their bum screeched at them. Santario looked up, an icy glare freezing over her eyes, but Thomas beat her to it.

She, for a moment, watched him skate off after he told her to take her time; truth be told, she enjoyed watching his skill, but what was about to come next was no doubt going to be more satisfying. She watched the back and forth as she scooted herself along the edge of the rink while trying to hide her giggling by covering her mouth. Slow and steady was a game she was good at, and it usually paid off in the end. This payoff was making it to the exit without falling and dying. She grabbed onto the half-wall and, one foot at a time, exited the rink before slightly penguin waddling to the closest bench and plopping down with a sigh.

She started to undo the laces as Thomas sat down next to her and started to undo his own skates. She grabbed the toe and heel of one foot before pulling hard, allowing her foot to pop out, wiggling her toes in their socked freedom. “I swear he was going to pop a vein in his forehead.” She laughed as she freed her second foot. The air around her shifted, though… The fun was over. The moment was gone. She owed him something, and she was dreading it more than she had dreaded anything else. Trying to think of excuses not to open her mouth and at the same time begging herself to rip it off like a band-aid.

“Thomas…?” His rarely used first name tumbled from her lips with apprehension. The pause was a stall that even she knew she could not continue on. She stared at her feet and the discarded skates. “You’ve confided a lot in me. I’ve hardly shown you the same courtesy.” The usually silvery soft voice was stiff; the words were forced. She didn’t want to do this, but at the same time, she needed to. Sure, by now, Thomas was not the only person to know of her parents' murders, but she needed to talk to someone. And not just anyone would do. No, she needed to speak to someone that she made a pact with not to lie to.

“It would be easier to show you… My home is barely a walk away from here. There is a patch that turns into a wooded area, and well, people who don’t know how to see it can’t find the path, but it’s there. My… My home… We could go. If you wanted to know more.” She fidgeted with her fingers, her thumb on her right hand moving from her index to ring finger to the middle and finally the pinky. Every other time the pattern was completed, her fingers ran over her palm before the pattern would begin again. The same pattern that her nails had clicked onto the tabletop when he had shoved the water bin in the dark room.

If he agreed to go, she would make the motion to find her shoes, return her skates, and lead the way.