The scissors click softly in his hand.

Simon tests the blades once. Twice. A habit, maybe. Or maybe he just needs the second—to steady his hands, to settle something in his chest before he starts.

He’s not just looking at your hair.

He’s looking at something older than this moment—something he and Samantha used to acknowledge in quiet glances across the kitchen, never quite putting it into words.

He remembers the way she’d watch you from the window, chin resting on her palm. Thoughtful. Soft. Knowing in a way that didn’t need explaining.

She saw it.

The way you’d tug at your shirts like they didn’t sit right. The way you’d push your hair back, restless, like it was in your way more than it ever should’ve been. The way mirrors became something you either avoided or stared into too long, searching for something that wouldn’t line up.

She knew.

She just never pushed. Maybe she was waiting. Maybe she trusted you’d find the words when you were ready.

Then came the bakery. The sirens. The silence.

One minute he was at home, wrapping the gift you’d been talking about for weeks—your birthday the next day, everything normal.

Then next, a call from the hospital.

Samantha Riley. Gone on the operating table. Multiple stab wounds from a robbery that turned violent before anyone could stop it.

Just like that.

Simon stands behind you now, solid as ever, even if it costs him more than he lets on. His thumb brushes briefly against the damp skin at the back of your neck—grounding, not lingering.

“She knew, you know.”

His voice is low. Rough around the edges, but steady.

“In her own way. Just… waiting for you to be ready to tell her.”

You go still for a second.

Then your shoulders drop—just slightly, but enough. Enough for him to notice.

“Could’ve done this in the bathroom,” he mutters after a beat. “But this was always her spot. For the big talks.”

The old routine.

The same chair. The same kitchen.

Only now it means something else.

He lifts a section of your hair. It’s heavy. Familiar. Years of it. The kind of weight that doesn’t just sit on your shoulders—it gets carried whether you want it or not.

This isn’t just hair.

It’s the last physical trace of the version of you the world decided on before you ever had a say in it. And the last trace of something shared with her.

He adjusts his grip, careful.

“You sure, son?”

The word isn’t hesitant.

It lands clean. Certain. Not a question of who you are—just confirmation that this is what you want.

You don’t answer.

Your shoulders square instead. Subtle. Instinctive.

That’s enough.

Snip.

The first lock hits the floor.

Simon’s gaze follows it, lingering a second longer than it needs to. He thinks of that birthday—the one that never came together. The cake she never brought home. The candles that were never lit.

He exhales slowly.

There’s no way to make it into something cleaner than it was.

Just loss. And what’s left after.

He keeps going.

Snip. Snip. Snip.

Each cut is deliberate. Measured. No rushing it. The air shifts with it.

Not lighter. Not yet.

But different.

The hair falls away, and the shape starts to change under his hands. Shorter. Less weight. Your reflection in the dark window shifts with it—edges sharpening, something aligning back into place.

Not perfect. But closer.

Right.

He notices. Says nothing. Just keeps steady, brushing shorter strands away from your ear.

“I’ve got you,” Simon murmurs. “We’re carrying her with us. But we’re moving forward. Yeah?”

He finishes the last careful passes, stepping back just enough to give you space—without ever really stepping away.

Then he reaches for the counter behind him.

A photo. Slightly worn at the edges.

He sets it in front of you.

Samantha stands between you both, her smile easy, her hand resting on your shoulder. Simon’s hand comes to rest on the back of your chair.

Solid. Present.

“She’d be proud of you.”

For the first time in a long while, it feels like a place where something began.