Page 129 of Grim

“The first morning I woke in that cold bed, my eyes opened, and there was this little stuffed bear sitting on the corner of the bed, staring back at me. I squeezed him so tight and kept him with me every day I was there.

“Sophia had given it to me. I know she did, though she never admitted it. That wasn’t her way. She didn’t need credit, only comfort. She’s the only person I can remember in my life who made me feel safe and seen. Until you, Miss Rue.”

Seek finally pulls his eyes away from the window and looks at me. I smile back at him, meeting his gaze.

“What happened to the bear?” I swallow, the ache in my chest suddenly magnified.

“I left it at the orphanage when I made my escape. Figured another scared little boy might find comfort in it too.”

“And what happened to Sophia?”

“Same thing that happens to all of us in the end, I imagine. Hope it was peaceful for her anyway.”

I try to speak, but nothing comes. He keeps going, like he has to say it now or he never will.

“She’s the only person I can remember who made me feel safe. Who made me feel like I mattered.” He hesitates. “Until you.”

The simplicity of his declaration makes the impact of his statement hit even harder.

He tucks his chin to his chest, cheeks burning red even though he doesn’t have real blood anymore. “I know I’m not always easy. I talk too much. I steal stuff. I’m a bit much sometimes. But you made me feel like I wasn’t just a stupid little ghost. You listened to me. You saw me.”

I bite the inside of my cheek. “Seek …”

He cuts me off before I can finish, “Is it really gonna happen?”

I pause.

He still won’t look at me.

“What do you mean?” I ask gently, though I already know.

“You,” he whispers, “leavin’?”

I close my eyes. It hurts to lie. It hurts worse to tell the truth. “Yes.”

Seek nods once, like he’s known all along but needed to hear me say it. “Thought so.” He stands, brushing invisible dust off his coat with complete earnestness. He mimes the action as though it’s the most important thing in the world to do at that moment. And maybe to him, it is. Perhaps pretending to be clean keeps him from falling apart. “I want a story,” he says quietly. “One last one.”

I blink, caught off guard by the seriousness of his request. “Seek …”

“Please.” He turns to me then. His eyes are bright, but not with mischief this time. There’s something else there. Something sharp. Fragile. “Your voice comforts me, Rue. Like how I felt, holding Sophia’s hand.”

The words hit me like a brick to the sternum and cause me to quietly break all at once. “I-I don’t have it in me to make one up,” I admit. “Not tonight.”

“That’s all right,” he says. “Just read me one that’s already been written.”

My throat burns, but I nod.

I drag myself to my bookshelf, fingers trembling as they skim the worn spines. My eyes land on a weathered copy ofThe Velveteen Rabbit. I pull it free, the pages soft from love, the cover barely clinging to its hinges.

I sit on the floor. Seek nestles beside me, head resting on my shoulder, like he belongs there.

He fits.

I begin to read. My voice shakes, but I keep going. The words from the pages fill the room, keeping us company. And for a little while, it’s enough.

I clear my throat, though it doesn’t help much. I make it through the part where the Rabbit asks what it means to be real. I pause, voice cracking on the line about how it doesn’t happen all at once. That it takes a long time. That sometimes, it hurts.

Seek doesn’t speak. He just leans against me and listens.