His backpack looked too big. His shoes were scuffed. But his eyes lit up the moment he saw Micah—and he ran, as if the past few months had never happened.

Micah met him halfway, arms already open, tears already falling. They embraced so tightly I thought they might never let go.

“Are you staying?” Micah asked breathlessly.

“Permanently,” I said, barely able to speak past the lump in my throat.

What followed was a blur—laughter, squeals of excitement, questions we couldn’t fully answer. We gave them space. They talked about Pokémon, spaghetti, and whether ghosts were real.

That night, Zayden fell asleep in Micah’s bed, the teddy bear between them. I lingered in the doorway, just watching. It felt right—like something once broken had quietly mended itself.