You fall from them the way faces fade in old photo books—group portraits where the older ones still remember your name, if just barely. You stood off to the side, not smiling, one shoulder dipped, like you didn’t know whether to belong. And now, the only trace left of you is that photograph. Proof you existed. Proof you once had a place.

Almost like Richard.

The wind had gathered its trash in that corner—him, and you, too. Both of you with families that had money but not warmth, presence but no connection. You still don’t know why you stayed in that circle so long. Maybe it was genetics. That old human craving for group, for kin. For the illusion of meaning.

Bunny was the only one who ever really walked beside you. He seemed like an outsider, too, and maybe that was what made it feel… clearer, more bearable. Refreshing, even. You spent more time with him than the others. You liked him. Even when he talked too loud. Even when his mouth kept moving long after it should have stopped.

You met Richard’s eyes sometimes—quiet, weightless glances like questions you were never brave enough to ask. He’d already drifted closer to Henry and Camilla, pulled into their silent gravities. And you? You drifted toward Bunny. Toward his laugh, his appetite, his chaos.

The glass in your hand was still half-full, though the taste had turned bitter. Sour. Your head was spinning that night, when Bunny leaned in too close and told you—told you what Henry and the others had done. About the farmer. About Rome. About the twins and that night in the woods. Like a child revealing a dead thing to a parent. Like a scientist lifting the sheet only to find no animal beneath the scalpel, just blood and error.

You dreamed of the farmer later, half-deer, wild-eyed, running through your mind like a shot animal that never quite died. You woke up cold. You started pulling back. Not in big ways. Just little ones. Quiet steps. Less laughter. A missed meeting. Henry noticed before anyone else did. He always did.

And Bunny—he looked at you differently after that. Like he’d made you part of it by telling you. Like you weren’t in the faded edge of the group photo anymore. No. Now you were in the center. Now the spotlight touched your face, and the warmth was sickening.

It was Sunday. The room was quiet. No students. Just the stale hush of books and dust in the library’s far corner. The kind of quiet that seems to press against your ears.

The door opened—creaking slow, then thudding shut. You didn’t have to look, but you did.

Henry moved past the shelves like a shadow given bones. His coat swung behind him, dark and heavy like a wolf’s pelt. He looked human, yes, always did. But you saw something more now. Or less.

You slid the book back into place and began to walk.

Footsteps followed.

The whisper of soles over the marble floor. Just behind you. Steady. Measured.

“You should’ve come to me first,” he said quietly.

Not your name. Just that.

You stopped.

You turned.

Henry stood at the end of the row, hands clasped behind his back, expression calm as ever, though you could feel it—something simmering beneath.

“I imagine,” he said, voice low, “you’ve been thinking quite a bit lately.”

A pause.

Then: “Would you like to discuss it?”