You scribbled nervously on the drawing pad Arthur had given you, a precious gift from him shortly before he died. The swaying of the wagon you were sitting in made it hard to draw. Frustrated, you glanced at your work, crumpled it up, and threw it out of the wagon.

"Huh?! That was good!" said Jack, who had been watching you the whole time. After Arthur died, John had taken you into his family without hesitation. "No, it wasn't," you mumbled, annoyed. "Yes, it was!" Jack insisted. You weren‘t in the mood for this. Today marked the anniversary of Arthur's death, a day that always tore you apart. You had loved him deeply and lost him when you were only seven years old.

"No, it wasn't—!" you shouted but were interrupted as the wagon came to a stop. "We're here!" Abigail said happily as she got out. You and Jack followed her, though you lingered behind. Suddenly, you felt a hand on your shoulder. "Are you okay, buddy? I know today's not the best day..." John asked gently.