Chapter 127 up
“Don’t run, Evan—slow down.”
The caregiver’s voice echoed down the corridor, light but strained. Evan ignored it anyway, sneakers skidding slightly as he came to a sudden stop in front of Nyla.
“You came again,” he said, grinning, breathless.
Nyla blinked, caught off guard by how natural it felt to see him there. “I did,” she replied. “You seem… energetic today.”
Evan puffed out his chest. “I’m not tired.”
“That’s not what your legs are saying,” Nyla teased gently.
He laughed, a bright, unrestrained sound that tugged at something deep inside her. It was strange how easily he did that—how he reached places in her she didn’t even know were exposed.
As Evan wandered off to inspect a nearby display, Nyla found herself watching him more closely than before. Not with the vague curiosity of yesterday. This time, it was deliberate. Almost instinctive.
She traced him with her eyes.
The way his brows knit together when he concentrated. The slight downturn at the corner of his mouth when he grew serious. The familiar tension that settled across his forehead when he was confused or stubborn.
Stubborn.
Nyla swallowed.
He was undeniably Clark’s son—anyone could see that. The height for his age. The sharp line of his nose. The posture that already carried an unconscious confidence.
But there was something else.
Something quieter. Something that didn’t belong to Clark at all.
Evan turned toward her, squinting as he examined a placard on the wall. His brows pulled together in a way that made Nyla’s heart stutter.
She had seen that expression before.
Countless times.
On her own face.
The realization crept up on her slowly, like a chill beneath warm skin. She straightened, uneasy, and forced herself to breathe.
You’re imagining things, she told herself. Faces repeat. Expressions are learned. This means nothing.
Still, her gaze lingered.
His eyes were the worst of it.
They were dark, deep brown—but not the polished, distant brown of Clark’s. Evan’s eyes held warmth, emotion close to the surface. They watched, absorbed, as if always trying to understand the world rather than dominate it.
Eyes that felt… close.
“Miss Nyla?”
She startled slightly, looking up. The caregiver had approached quietly, Evan now tugging at the hem of her jacket.
“Yes?”
“He won’t stop asking if you’re staying,” the woman said apologetically. “I thought you might want to know.”
Nyla glanced down at Evan. “Is that true?”
He nodded solemnly. “You didn’t leave yesterday. So I thought maybe you wouldn’t today either.”
The simplicity of his logic pierced her.
“I can stay a little while,” she said.
Evan smiled—slow, genuine—and immediately plopped down on the floor beside her, legs crossed, leaning so close their shoulders brushed.
Nyla froze for half a second.
Then she relaxed.
They sat in companionable silence as Evan pulled a small puzzle from a box and began assembling it, tongue peeking out slightly in concentration. Nyla watched his hands—small but precise, confident in their movements.
Again, that ache.
She shifted, trying to ground herself. “You really like puzzles, huh?”
“They make sense,” Evan replied without looking up. “Even when they’re hard, they always have an answer.”
Nyla smiled faintly. “I wish everything worked like that.”
Evan looked up at her then. His eyes searched her face—not casually, but deeply, as if he were mapping something invisible.
“You look sad,” he said.
The words landed softly. Too softly.
“I’m not,” Nyla said automatically.
Evan tilted his head. “You are a little. But it’s okay. My grandma says people can be sad and still be good.”
Nyla’s throat tightened. “Your grandma sounds wise.”
“She is,” Evan agreed. “She says I got my eyes from my mom.”
The caregiver, who had been rearranging items nearby, laughed lightly. “That’s true. Evan has eyes just like his mother.”
Nyla’s fingers curled into her palm.
“What do you mean?” she asked, keeping her voice even.
The caregiver waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, just that look. Very strong. Very stubborn. His mother was the same—sharp gaze, never backed down.”
She smiled to herself, lost in the memory. “Hard-headed woman.”
Evan grinned proudly. “Dad says I’m stubborn too.”
The caregiver chuckled. “Yes, but Evan’s eyes… those weren’t from Clark. Those came from a woman who refused to bend.”
Nyla’s breath caught.
The room seemed to tilt, just slightly.
“I’ve always thought that,” the caregiver continued, oblivious. “Evan has the same eyes as a woman who once stood here and argued with lawyers twice her age. Same fire. Same look.”
Nyla slowly lifted her gaze to Evan.
He was watching her.
Not smiling now. Not fidgeting. Just looking—quiet, observant, almost solemn.
For a fleeting moment, the world narrowed to the space between them.
Nyla saw it then.
Not just similarity.
Recognition.
In the reflective surface of Evan’s pupils, she caught her own face—paler than she realized, eyes wide, lips parted in disbelief.
Her eyes.
Staring back at her.
The room rushed back all at once—voices, footsteps, distant laughter—but Nyla barely heard it. Her heart pounded so loudly she was certain someone else must notice.
This isn’t possible, she told herself. This can’t be real.
She forced a breath, then another.
“Evan,” she said softly. “Can I ask you something?”
He nodded.
“Do you remember your mom?”
Evan’s brow furrowed—the same way hers did when she was thinking too hard. “Not really. I remember a voice. And… a smell. Like rain.”
Nyla’s chest burned.
“Do you miss her?” she asked.
Evan shrugged, uncertain. “I think so. Sometimes my chest feels funny. Like when I look at you.”
Her hands trembled.
The caregiver glanced at her watch. “Evan, sweetheart, it’s almost time.”
Evan pouted. “Already?”
Nyla stood slowly, legs unsteady. “I guess that means I should go too.”
Evan rose as well, stepping closer. He hesitated, then slipped his small hand into hers without asking.
The contact sent a jolt through her entire body.
Nyla looked down at their joined hands. His fingers fit too easily between hers.
Too naturally.
She let him hold on.
When it was time to part, Evan didn’t cry. He didn’t cling.
He just looked up at her, eyes serious beyond his years.
“You’ll come back,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
Nyla swallowed. “Yes,” she whispered. “I will.”
As she walked away, her reflection followed her in the glass walls lining the corridor. But it wasn’t her own face she saw anymore.
It was Evan’s eyes.
Her eyes.
And for the first time, the thought she had been running from took shape—not as fear, but as a quiet, terrifying certainty.
Some truths didn’t need proof.
They only needed a reflection.