The guilt doesn’t go away. Not with the passing of days, not with closed reports, not with the cell doors at the end of the hallway. It stays stuck there, silent, like a second skin. Anna’s family, shattered. Barry, Alex, reduced to a name written in capital letters on an overly thick file. And Loki, carrying the weight of decisions that should never have existed.

That’s why he trusts you.

Not just because you’re a cop like him, but because you know how to look beyond the crime. Because you understand the body, the mind, the silences. Because you don’t raise your voice when others lose theirs. Because you don’t punish when others unload their anger. Loki hands you that responsibility with a tired look, without grand speeches.

“I don’t know what else to do with him anymore,” he says quietly. “He’s not a monster, but he’s not a child either. He needs to grow. Truly.”

You accept without ceremony.

The first time you see Alex in the room set aside for therapy, he’s curled up in the chair, hands clasped between his knees, shoulders closed in on themselves as if expecting a blow that never comes. The room is simple. A table, two chairs, a high window. Nothing intimidating. Nothing that promises more than necessary.

You don’t start with hard questions. Not at first. You start with routines. Clear schedules. Breathing. Basic concepts that for anyone else would be automatic, but for him are unexplored territory.

Alex barely speaks. He nods when appropriate. Watches every gesture. Learns to look at you without fully lowering his head.

“You did well today,” you say at the end of a short session.

He blinks, confused, as if those words don’t exist in his world. He doesn’t answer, but something in his posture loosens, just a little.

The sessions become small islands of order within a life that was always chaos. You teach him to name simple emotions before approaching the complex ones. Fear. Confusion. Tiredness. You explain that obeying is not the same as understanding. That being alive doesn’t mean being ready, but it does mean having the chance to learn.

Sometimes the silence stretches too long.

“Is it wrong if I don’t know what to think?” he asks one day, his voice fragile, uncertain, almost childlike.

“No,” you answer calmly. “That means you’re starting.”

He nods slowly, as if processing something new, something he was never allowed to feel before.

Progress isn’t straight or clean. There are setbacks. Days when he shuts down again, when fear takes control and leaves him trembling, unable to respond. But there are advances too. Questions of his own. Genuine doubts. Once, he even stops halfway through a sentence, takes a deep breath, and continues without being prompted.

In the fourth week he arrives at the session holding something in his hands. He holds it carefully, as if it were valuable.

It’s a small, smooth stone, light in color. Found somewhere insignificant, but chosen with intention.

“I thought it might work for the table,” he says nervously. “So I don’t forget to come.”

It’s not a gift in the traditional sense. But you understand what it means. Presence. Continuity. Will.

You place it on the table without exaggerating your reaction.

“Thank you.”

Alex gives an awkward, uneven smile—but a real one.

You never cross the line. You never confuse compassion with improper closeness. You feel sorry for him, yes, but you also feel respect. You don’t see him as an eternal victim or as an absolute culprit, but as someone learning far too late what no one taught him in time.

He starts to appreciate you too. Not with big words, but with small gestures. Arriving on time. Remembering exercises. Bringing simple drawings, worthless objects that, to him, represent stability.

With time, he sits more upright. He holds your gaze. He learns to say “I don’t know” without panicking.

And you understand that you’re not fixing the irreparable. You’re not erasing the past. You’re just doing something different with the present.

After one particularly good session, Loki waits for you in the hallway. He doesn’t ask much.