That afternoon, while other kids ran to their moms with cards flying in their backpacks, the twins walked slowly down the school steps.
The driver waited at the curb in the usual black sedan, but they didn’t rush.
Jon held the folded heart like it might rip if the wind touched it.
Back home, Evelyn James was finishing the dishes. The house was quiet in the kind of way that felt too big, like the silence stretched into every corner. She didn’t mind it.
She’d gotten used to the echo of grief. She wore a sweatshirt and house slippers, her hair tied loosely, sleeves damp from rinsing the boy’s water bottles.
When she heard the door open, she dried her hands, not expecting anything more than snack requests or muddy shoes. But when she turned the corner, she found them standing still in the foyer.
Kevin<unk>’s backpack hung off one shoulder. Jon was holding something behind his back. He stepped forward, his shoes making no sound on the marble floor.
Then, without a word, he handed her the heart.
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