Page 36 of Remain

“I leave tomorrow morning,” the words come out almost as whisper. “Early. too. Six a.m.”

The words land between us, heavy and final.

“I know.”

That hurts more than if he had asked me to stay.

“I didn’t know my mom like that,” I continue, because now that I have started, I cannot stop. “Not the girl in Ruth’s photo. Not the woman who walked back into that toy store with an envelope and a plan. I had no idea Erik. I had no idea what she did for you, for your brothers, for your mom.”

“She never stopped being her,” he chokes back a tear, looking up to the sky, trying to locate her. “She just kept becoming more.”

My throat tightens. “I didn’t.”

He turns fully toward me. “We both know that’s not true.”

“I ran,” the shame creeping up my throat. “When she got sick, I ran. I chose distance because I did not know how to stay and watch her disappear. I couldn’t handle it.”

He does not interrupt. He never does.

“Your mom loved you,” he says softly. “She still does. I know she still does.”

That almost breaks me.

“She used to say you were brave,” he adds. “That it takes courage to want more than the place that made you. She was proud of you. Very proud, Sav. Don’t you ever for a second forget that.”

Tears burn behind my eyes. “She said that?”

“Any chance she got.”

I step closer without meaning to. My hands slide into the front of his coat, fingers curling there like I’m sixteen all over again. Erik stills, then lifts one hand slowly, settling it at my lower back. His fingers flex once against my back, betraying him. I feel the tension, the restraint he’s fighting against building inside of him.

“I have no idea how to leave after today,” I whisper. “How do I go back to my life in New York like this did not happen.”

His chin lowers until it rests against my forehead. “You do not have to decide tonight.”

“But I do,” I’m sharp in my response, feeling the pressure and the overwhelm. “I have a boarding pass. A calendar. A life waiting for me.”

His hand tightens just slightly at my back. “I loved her,” he says quietly. “Your mom. Not like you did, but she mattered to me. A lot. She taught me how to stay. How to keep choosing the thing that needs you.”

I pull back enough to look at him. His eyes are icy like the snow around us, yet open, filled with years of wanting he never asked me to carry.

“And you, Erik?” I question him, because I don’t ever think I’ve asked him before. “Did you ever want to leave?”

He exhales slowly, then lifts his gaze to meet mine. “There were moments,” he says, calmer now, “especially after my brothers moved away and started different lives, when I wondered if I should do the same.” He pauses, but there’s no hesitation in it. “But every time the thought came up, I remembered what it felt like to be chosen, and what it felt like to keep building something that mattered.”

His voice doesn’t waver. “I didn’t want to walk away from that. This was too important to leave.”

His body language shifts suddenly, I step back. He walks around and reaches for the door handle to his truck, pulling it open. “Hang on. I almost forgot something.”

He reaches into the truck and pulls something free from the cab, hesitating for just a beat before pressing it into my hands. It’s a snow globe. Inside, a small town square glows beneath a slow fall of snow, a tiny rink and a gazebo lit warmly, light spilling everywhere.

“Erik, what are you doing? What is this?”

“My mom found it in a shop two towns over, years ago, right around the time Diane got sick,” he says, his gaze dropping to it with a steadiness. “She said your mom loved them. Said they made the world feel contained, like you could hold the magic without letting it slip away.”

My fingers tighten around the glass.

“We talked about giving it to Diane,” he says evenly. “But I told my mom to keep it. I wanted her to have something at home that honored Diane, something that reminded us of her.” His gaze lifts to mine, unwavering. “And then I knew it should be yours. This isn’t a gift. It’s being returned to where it belongs.”