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Salamon2 - Wishbone — Description

Chapter 10 – Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas

The classroom was loud in the way only a Christmas party could be—paper snowflakes taped crookedly to the windows, construction‑paper chains sagging from the ceiling, and a table in the corner piled with cookies and cupcakes brought in by parents. Holiday music played from the teacher’s Bluetooth speaker, just loud enough to blur into the chatter of twenty‑odd fourth graders.

“Feliz Navidad… Feliz Navidad…”

Bryce stood near the doorway, hands in his pockets, watching everyone else have fun. He felt like he was behind glass. Kids darted past him with frosting‑smeared napkins and glitter‑covered crafts, but none of it touched him. He’d spent the last month feeling like a ghost in his own classroom.

“Feliz Navidad, Próspero año y Felicidad…”

Jake was across the room, blindfolded, laughing as he tried to pin a felt red nose onto a poster of Rudolph. A cluster of kids shouted directions at him—“Left! No, your other left!”—and Jake soaked up the attention, grinning under the blindfold.

“I wanna wish you a Merry Christmas…”

Charlie wasn’t with him.

Charlie sat alone at one of the tables, hunched over his Pokémon deck, sorting cards with the same quiet focus he’d had all month. He’d ignored the Christmas word search, ignored the crafts, ignored the games. Just shuffled and reshuffled his deck like it was the only thing keeping him steady.

Bryce swallowed, feeling the familiar ache in his chest. For weeks, Jake had hovered around Charlie like a guard dog, pulling him away whenever Bryce got close. But Jake was distracted now. With him blindfolded it was the first opening Bryce had seen in a long time.

He crossed the room before he could talk himself out of it and sat down across from Charlie.

Charlie looked up, startled. His hands froze mid‑shuffle.

“What are you doing?” he asked, guarded.

Bryce pulled out his own deck and set it on the table. “I’m tired of watching you shuffle cards for a month. I’m challenging you.”

Charlie blinked. “Bryce, we’re not—”

“You don’t have to be talking to me to accept a challenge,” Bryce said, already cutting the deck.

Charlie hesitated. “No, we don’t. But Bryce…”

Bryce didn’t look up. “What?”

“Just because I accept one challenge doesn’t mean everything’s good,” Charlie emphasized.

Bryce slid the deck back toward himself. “You gonna finish shuffling or keep not talking?”

Charlie exhaled through his nose, picked up his cards, and began to shuffle again. They set their decks, drew their hands, and the game began.

For a few minutes, the only sound between them was the soft clack of cards hitting the table. But Charlie kept glancing up with quick, searching looks as if he were waiting for Bryce to say something. Anything. But Bryce didn’t.

Charlie’s plays grew clumsy. He miscounted energy. He placed a card sideways he didn’t mean to. His frustration quietly simmering all the while.

Bryce finally noticed. “You’re messing up.”

Charlie’s jaw tightened. “You’re not even going to try to apologize?”

Bryce didn’t look up. “You and Jake made it pretty clear nothing I say matters. So why try?”

Charlie’s voice sharpened. “There is something you could say. The truth.”

Bryce’s hands stilled. “You wouldn’t believe me.”

Charlie leaned forward. “If you’re ashamed to say it outright… tell it like you did before.”

Bryce’s head lifted. “Like before?”

Charlie nodded. “Yeah, as a story. When you used to tell me and Jake the story about a teenager turned into a kid trying to find a way to turn back.”

Bryce’s head snapped up. “I don’t remember that. What was the story?”

Charlie set his cards down. His voice softened, like he was reciting something he’d memorized long ago.

“You told us about a teenager who got turned into a kid,” Charlie said. “And how he kept trying to turn back. He used different magic ways to make his wish. But every time he tried, it backfired. As far as I can remember… you never finished the story.”

He looked Bryce in the eyes. “But then again, you never turned back into a teenager, did you?”

Bryce’s throat tightened. “What do you mean?”

Charlie swallowed. “You can stop pretending. I remember how weird you acted all those months ago. After Valentine’s Day you were a completely different person. Then there was the necklace you wouldn’t take off. The way you talked sometimes. You being a teenager stuck in a kid’s body… it made sense, given everything.”

Bryce stared at him, stunned. Dylan had been right?! And old him had told Charlie everything, and Charlie had… believed him? This was too much to take in all at once.

Charlie nudged his cards aside. “So, tell me the truth as a story.”

Bryce’s fingers curled around his deck. He took a breath.

“There was a kid,” Bryce said quietly. “And he went with his friends and brother to a Trunk or Treat. There he found a trunk with a witch who had magic seeds.”

Charlie’s eyes lit with recognition. “The one with the pirate kid and his dad magic trick?”

“Yeah.” Bryce swallowed. “He—uh, the kid—got one of those pumpkin seeds because he was tired of his brother not paying attention to him. And he wished for his big brother to be the little brother. And it turned him into a teenager.”

Charlie leaned in, completely absorbed now.

Bryce continued, voice trembling. “The kid forgot he was a teen. So, when he got to be the older brother, it felt wrong. Like he didn’t know how to be a teenager at all. And when he tried to talk to his friends… they didn’t know him. They said they had to find their dad. Because why would two nine‑year‑olds know a sixteen‑year‑old?”

Charlie’s expression softened, the frustration draining out of him.

Bryce kept going. “His brother was a toddler. And he started crying. And he needed to go home. And… that’s what happened to the kid in the story.”

Charlie took a slow breath. “Bryce—”

A sharp voice cut through the moment.

“What’s going on?”

Jake stood beside the table, blindfold hanging around his neck, face flushed from the game—but his eyes were hard, suspicious, locked on Bryce.

Jake’s eyes flicked from Charlie to Bryce, narrowing. “I thought we talked about you not letting people boss you around,” he said, voice low and sharp.

Bryce felt the words like a slap. He knew exactly where this was going. He’d lived this moment too many times—Jake stepping in, Charlie folding, Bryce left standing alone. He started gathering his cards, sliding them back into his deck box.

But Charlie’s hand shot out, palm flat. “Stop,” he said. “We’re not done playing.”

Bryce froze.

Jake blinked, thrown off. “Charlie—”

“Shut up.” Charlie turned in his seat, fixing Jake with a look Bryce had never seen him use before—steady, irritated, almost fierce. “Quit being stubborn and listen. Use your brain for once.”

Jake’s mouth fell open. He looked stunned, like someone had yanked the floor out from under him. For a moment he didn’t move. Then, reluctantly, he pulled out the chair beside Charlie and sat. Charlie nudged Bryce’s arm. ‘Catch him up,’ he said. So Bryce did.

When Jake was all caught up, Charlie then asked, “Why did he turn back?” he asked, jerking his chin toward Bryce.

Bryce swallowed. “The pumpkin seed magic only worked for that night,” he said quietly. “When I—uh he woke up, he thought it was all a dream.”

Charlie nodded slowly. “Sometimes,” he said, “I have dreams where I’m Jake’s older brother.”

Jake snorted. “That… would be completely… unrealistic…” His voice trailed off. His expression shifted—like he was remembering something he couldn’t quite grab.

Charlie continued, “And sometimes I have dreams where I’m Jake’s little brother. I don’t like those.”

Jake straightened. “I’d make a good big brother.”

Charlie rolled his eyes. “Not in my dreams you didn’t.”

Jake bristled. “Hey—”

“It’s the truth,” Charlie said simply.

“How so? What makes me the bad brother?” Jake insisted. His tone was petulant, but the look on his face betrayed just how deep Charlie’s comments had hurt him.

“I didn’t call you a bad brother, just that you’d weren’t a good big brother.”

“Same difference!” protested Jake.

“Don’t you start!” Charlie warned.

“What’s going on?” Bryce asked, confused by the way Jake and Charlie were talking to each other.

“Twin stuff, you wouldn’t understand,” Jake snapped.

Bryce frowned. He didn’t understand what Jake was hinting at.

Charlie’s eyes narrowed. “See? That’s a good example right there, you were loud, rude, and easily annoyed! And you rarely if ever think about how other people feel!”

“Yeah, well, you as an older brother weren’t any better. You didn’t listen, you left me alone, and you talked like you always knew better!” Jake retorted.

Charlie shouted, “You yelled and then ignored what I wanted to do!”

“You yelled and then walked away like I didn’t matter!” Jake yelled back.

One of the PTO mothers then came over, “Boys, is everything all right?”

Neither Jake nor Charlie said anything. They didn’t even look at her.

Sensing that she would keep hovering until her questions were answered, Bryce spoke up. “It’s nothing… Jake and Charlie were just arguing about our game is all—we’re being stupid really.”

“Then perhaps it’s time to play something else.”

“We’ll be fine, Mrs. Tellup,” Charlie said, giving Jake a pointed look, before elbowing him.

“Yeah… fine,” Jake echoed half-heartedly.

“All right,” she said reluctantly. “Just remember, if Santa hears you fighting, you might get coal in your stocking!” Mrs. Tellup scolded before leaving them be.

Bryce rolled his eyes.

“Like he exists,” Jake scoffed, causing Charlie to snort. The twins shared a smile and then looked at each other.

Charlie offered, “We both weren’t so great… being older.”

“I guess this is… better,” Jake admitted.

For a moment Jake and Charlie shared an odd look, like they’d both remembered something and then lost it again, that Bryce didn’t understand.

“What are you guys talking about?” Bryce asked, confused by the entire exchange.

Both Jake and Charlie blinked, their faces creasing with confusion.

“What were we talking about?” Jake asked.

“I forget…”

“I think, dreams…” Bryce mentioned.

That seemed to jog Charlie’s memory.

“Right!” Charlie turned back to Bryce. “Have you had any other dreams? Like the one about Trunk or Treat night?”

Bryce shook his head. “No.”

Charlie leaned forward. “Then how do you know your dream about the Trunk or Treat is true?”

Bryce hesitated. “Because Dylan confirmed it,” he said. “I didn’t tell him my dream. He told me what happened.”

Bryce looked between them, unsure. “There’s not much more to say,” he murmured. Then he turned to Charlie. “Did I really tell you that story? About the teenager who became a kid?”

Charlie nodded. “You did.” He paused, then added, “Do you want to hear more than just the short version?”

Bryce’s voice was small. “Yeah. I do.”

Charlie gathered his cards into a neat stack, set them aside, and folded his hands on the table. Jake leaned in despite himself.

And Bryce waited—heart pounding, breath tight—as Charlie prepared to tell him the story he himself had once told… back when he’d been someone else.

~*~*~*~

The gym smelled like old mats and winter air. The heaters clicked on and off, never quite keeping up with December. Dylan stood alone on the mat, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, gloves on, headgear hanging from a hook nearby. He’d been here for twenty minutes already, long enough for his shoulders to burn.

Jab. Cross. Slip. Cross.

He wasn’t thinking about his form or his breath. He wasn’t thinking about anything except the rhythm — the one thing in his life that didn’t change when magic decided to rewrite the world.

He reset his stance and threw another combination.

The door opened behind him.

“Dylan?”

He turned. Ethan stood in the doorway, backpack slung over one shoulder, hair still damp from the cold outside. His face lit up the moment he saw Dylan.

“You’re early again,” Ethan said, stepping inside and letting the door swing shut behind him. “Like… really early.”

Dylan shrugged, trying to play it off. “Just practicing.”

Ethan dropped his bag on the bench and walked over, pulling on his gloves. “You’ve been ‘just practicing’ every day for a month.”

Dylan didn’t answer. He threw another jab.

Ethan stepped onto the mat, watching him. “You know I only started coming early because you texted me that one time. Asking if I’d be here.”

Dylan’s punch faltered.

Ethan continued, voice gentle. “And then I noticed you were making a habit of it.”

Dylan reset his stance. “So? You’ve been doing the same thing.”

Ethan didn’t answer right away. He stepped back, shook out his arms, and reset his stance — but he didn’t raise his guard. He just stood there, breathing a little heavier than before, eyes unfocused.

Dylan frowned. “Seriously, are you, okay?”

Ethan let out a breath that wasn’t quite a sigh. “Yeah. Just… tired.”

But it wasn’t physical tired. Dylan could tell. Ethan’s shoulders were tight, his jaw set in a way Dylan hadn’t noticed before.

Dylan lifted his gloves again. “You sure?”

Ethan hesitated. “I’ve been having this nightmare,” he said finally. “It just won’t go away.”

Dylan froze. Ethan never talked like that — not about himself, not about anything that wasn’t a joke or a sparring tip or some story about his sister or cousins.

“What kind of nightmare?” Dylan asked.

Ethan looked away. “I don’t know… it’s weird. Doesn’t matter.”

“It does,” Dylan said. “If it’s messing with you.”

Ethan huffed a humorless laugh. “Look who’s talking.”

Dylan blinked. “What?”

Ethan gestured at him with one glove. “You’ve been coming early every day. You train like you’re trying to run away from something. And you keep looking at your phone like you’re waiting for a message that never comes.”

Dylan’s stomach tightened.

Ethan stepped closer, not aggressive — just honest. “You’re dodging something. Same as me.”

Dylan swallowed. “I’m not dodging.”

Ethan gave him a look. “Dylan. You’re the fastest kid in the gym, but you’re not fast enough to outrun whatever’s eating you.”

Dylan didn’t know what to say. He felt exposed, like Ethan had peeled back a layer he didn’t realize he’d been hiding behind.

Ethan looked down at the mat. “My nightmare… it’s stupid.”

“Tell me anyway,” Dylan said quietly.

Ethan didn’t raise his guard. He just stood there, shoulders tight, eyes unfocused. Dylan waited.

Ethan finally said, voice low, “I’m small.”

Dylan blinked. “Small?”

“Like… little.” Ethan’s eyes flicked away. “Everything’s huge. People, cars, lights. I can’t find anyone. I’m just… wandering around, and everything’s loud and bright and I don’t know where I am.”

Dylan remained quiet but his own thoughts trickled back to a similar dream. One that wasn’t a dream at all.

Ethan continued, words tumbling out now that he’d started. “I’m scared. Really scared. And I’m crying, but it’s not like—” He gestured vaguely. “Not like now-crying. It’s that little-kid cry where you don’t even know why you’re crying, you just are.”

Dylan eased his stance.

“And then,” Ethan said, “this bigger kid shows up. He’s wearing a green dinosaur costume,” Ethan said quietly. “Like one of those fuzzy cheap onesies with a hood and a tail that flops when you walk.”

He’s remembering the Trunk or Treat... and he remembers me.

Ethan swallowed. “He hugs me. Just… wraps his arms around me. And I feel safe. Like he knows me. Like he’s supposed to be there.”

Dylan’s vision blurred for a second.

Ethan shook his head. “I don’t know who he is. I don’t know why he’s there. But every time I wake up, I feel stupid and shaken and… I don’t know. Like I lost something.”

Dylan’s voice came out thin. “That’s not stupid. And you didn’t lose me.”

Ethan was surprised then as Dylan wrapped his arms around him. The hug was clumsy but sincere.

“I thought you looked cute in a dinosaur suit,” Ethan teased. His voice was low and barely above a whisper.

“The only way you’re seeing that again is in your dreams,” Dylan said.

“Again? That implies there was actually a first time,” Ethan retorted.

Dylan snorted, and both boys laughed.

Eventually Ethan pulled out of the hug that felt so much like his dream and looked at Dylan, eyes searching. “Your turn.”

Dylan in that instant, froze.

Ethan stepped closer, not aggressive — just honest. “You said you’d tell me what you’re running from.”

Dylan’s gloves felt too heavy. His chest felt too tight. He looked down at the mat, then up at Ethan, then away again.

“I messed something up,” Dylan said finally.

Ethan didn’t move.

“With someone I care about,” Dylan said. “I hurt him. Bad.”

“Should I be worried about this someone?” Ethan teased lightly, but when Dylan didn’t reciprocate the smile, Ethan’s expression softened.

“It’s nothing like that,” Dylan said, voice cracking. “I—I tried to fix it, but I made it worse. Way worse.”

Ethan’s brow furrowed. “Dylan…”

“He said he wished he could forget me,” Dylan whispered. “And I think he meant it.”

Ethan was as silent as a guard while Dylan tried to collect himself.

Dylan swallowed hard. “I feel like I lost him. Like he’s gone. And I don’t know how to get him back. And I don’t know how to stop thinking about it.”

Ethan’s expression softened even more. “Then whoever it is… you didn’t lose him either. Not if you’re still trying.”

Dylan swallowed. “So, what do I do? With him? I’ve tried apologizing and explaining things… but all I did was make everything worse.”

Ethan shifted his weight, gloves hanging loose at his sides. “Sometimes apologizing doesn’t fix it.”

Dylan looked up, startled. “Then what does?”

Ethan shrugged, but it wasn’t careless—it was honest. “You make it clear you’re still there. Even if they don’t want you right now. Even if they’re mad. Even if they say things that hurt.”

Dylan’s voice cracked. “Even if doing that gets you hurt?”

Ethan met his eyes. “Especially then.”

Dylan blinked. “Why?”

“Because someone has to go first,” Ethan said. “Someone has to show they’re willing to trust again. And if you want someone to trust you, you have to give yours first. Even when it feels unfair. Even when it feels scary.”

Dylan’s throat tightened. “And that works?”

“It did now, didn’t it?” Ethan said with a slight smirk.

Dylan blinked, realizing Ethan had just modeled exactly what he was advising. The smirk grew into a laugh, which only caused Dylan to shove Ethan in response as he laughed even more.

Ethan then grew serious “It doesn’t always, but it’s the only way anything ever gets fixed.”

Dylan’s breath trembled.

Ethan added, “And you don’t have to outrun it alone.”

Dylan stared at him, something in his chest cracking open.

Ethan lifted his gloves. “Come on. Let’s work it out.”

Dylan nodded once, shakily, as they raised their guards and began to spar.

~*~*~*~

The quiet lull of the day before Christmas stretched into an easy, lazy afternoon. “It gave both Bryce and Dylan time to talk, and plenty of excuses not to.

Bryce sat at the dining room table, pencil tapping against his worksheet. His backpack lay open beside him, papers spilling out like it had given up trying to stay organized. He stared at the math problem in front of him, jaw tight, foot bouncing like he’d drank three sodas, determined to not be conquered by it.

Dylan stepped into the doorway and stopped. For a moment he didn’t see nine-year-old Bryce sitting at the table, but his older brother rolling his pencil between his fingers between bouts of incessant tapping, the same habit he’d had for as long as Dylan could remember. He was engaged in the same ritual of doing homework the day before Christmas so he could get it out of the way.

The sight hit him hard.

Dylan didn’t say anything at first. He just stood there, hands in his hoodie pockets, watching Bryce’s pencil tap faster and faster between rolls.

The more things change…

After half a minute, Bryce felt his stare, looked up and stiffened. “What?”

Dylan’s hopes sank in that instant as reality clawed them down. “Nothing. Just… saw you working, like always. Do you need help?”

Bryce looked back down at his worksheet and hunched over his paper. “I’m fine.”

Dylan nodded once, slow. “Okay. Just… if you want help, I’m here.”

Bryce’s shoulders tightened. “I said, I don’t need your help.”

Dylan didn’t push. Instead, he walked over and sat at the opposite end of the table. He wasn’t getting too close. He didn’t want to seem looming, just be present. He pulled out his phone but didn’t look at it. He didn’t talk or try to fix anything. Instead, he just sat.

Bryce tried to focus on the worksheet. He really did. But the numbers kept blurring, the instructions didn’t make sense, and his chest felt tight in a way he hated.

After a minute, he muttered, louder than he meant to, “This problem’s stupid.”

Dylan looked up. “Which one?”

Bryce hesitated. His pencil hovered over the page. “The… uh… fraction one.”

Dylan didn’t move closer. He just asked, “Read it to me?”

Bryce swallowed. “It says… um… ‘Find the common denominator and rewrite the fractions.’”

Dylan nodded. “Okay. What are the denominators?”

“Uhh… I missed that part in class.”

“Really? You missed that part?” Dylan smirked, surprised at Bryce needing any help in STEM related subjects, given his preference for them he had—well used to have.

“I’ve been thinking about a lot of things! I got distracted.” Bryce snapped.

Dylan winced. “Okay, don’t bite my head off. What are the numbers at the bottom of the fraction, under the line?”

“Nine and Twelve.” Bryce pouted.

“Right. Those are the denominators. So, what’s the smallest number both nine and twelve can both go into without anything left over?”

Bryce frowned. “Umm… thirty-six?”

Dylan took Bryce’s word on that. Though his mind caught up a few seconds later when he remembered what 4x9 and 12x3 both were. It eased Dylan’s worries for just a moment, because there was that talent for mathematics that Bryce had… just in a more raw form than he’d ever seen it.

“Yeah.” Dylan’s voice stayed soft. “So, you rewrite both fractions with thirty-six on the bottom.”

Bryce worked through it slowly, pencil scratching. When he finished, he glanced up — not at Dylan, but near him.

“…That actually helped,” he said quietly.

Dylan smiled, small and careful. “I’m glad.”

Bryce stared at the paper for a long moment. He didn’t know what to say to that.

Charlie’s story about the other him had cracked something open inside him — something he had been trying not to think about since the moment Charlie said it. If Charlie’s story was right, then the reason the old him was gone was Dylan’s fault.

Bryce supposed that made sense. Dylan felt bad about what he did and that’s why he wanted the old him back so badly. But the fact that Dylan couldn’t accept who he was now made Bryce wonder if Dylan ever accepted who the old him was. If Dylan ever really liked or wanted him as his brother at all.

The thought left him feeling overwhelmed. He felt scared, angry, confused, small — like he could disappear in an instant if Dylan only had the power to do it. And it resolved him to do something about those feelings the first chance he got. That last thought made him shiver.

Then, without looking up, Bryce asked, “Why are you helping me?”

Dylan began after a moment’s hesitation. “Cuz’ you’re… you’re my brother—”

Bryce interrupted. “No, I’m not. You made that clear on your birthday. You tried to wish me gone. You told me so.”

Dylan swallowed, “You may not be the Bryce I remember… but you’re still Bryce. You’re still my brother, and I… I should have been better to you.”

“Wishing I was erased is a funny way of showing it.” Bryce’s voice sharpened. “You don’t want me — you want him.”

He looked down at his worksheet, jaw tight, but his mind clear.

“I’m still gonna make that wish the first chance I get,” he said, quiet but deadly. “Then you’ll forget everything. See how you like it.”

“That’s not you, Bryce. You wouldn’t do that,” Dylan said before he could think.

Bryce’s head snapped up. “Maybe I wouldn’t if you didn’t try it first! Why should I trust you not to try again? You already did it! Twice!”

“You may not be Bryce at sixteen,” Dylan said, voice shaking, “but I remember you from when you were nine the first time, and you aren’t mean or cruel. You never were cruel.”

Bryce bit his lip hard. “Yeah? And how old were you when he was nine?”

Dylan hesitated. “I—I was five.”

Bryce let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “You were FIVE. You were a baby. Babies don’t remember stuff. You don’t even know what he was like.”

Dylan opened his mouth, only to be interrupted by the doorbell.

Mom called from the kitchen, “Can someone get that? I’ve got my hands full!”

Dylan exhaled, almost disappointed, and called, “I’ll get it.”

He stood, hesitated for half a second, then said softly, “Look, I know sorry won’t cut it… but I’m trying Bryce. And I’m… I’m here for you... even if you don’t want me.”

Bryce ignored him.

Dylan hurried to the front door as the doorbell rang a second time. Cold air swept in, along with Aunt Sarah’s familiar perfume and the sound of Evie talking before she was even fully inside.

“There’s my favorite nephew! How are you Dyl?,” Aunt Sarah said, juggling a purse, a casserole dish, and a bag of presents. “Sorry we’re late — Noah refused to pack until the last minute. And I had to practically drag Lucas out of bed. Do me a favor Dyl: stop getting older now. Stay a boy as long as you can. Teenagers just aren’t worth the hassle.”

Evie marched past Dylan, chin up. “Lucas and Noah are fighting again.”

Aunt Sarah sighed. “They’re out by the car. Lucas is taking his sweet old time grabbing the bags, and Noah is… well, being Noah.”

“He’s stuck on Lucas,” Evie supplied helpfully. “He just keeps following Lucas around like a puppy!”

Somewhere in Dylan’s mind he heard an echoing refrain that he hadn’t heard in months.

Clingy. Shadow. Puppy. Always right there.

Words he hadn’t heard in months from a far different version of Bryce flickered through him like a cold draft.

Aunt Sarah gave a tired laugh. “They’ve been at each other nonstop. Lucas says Noah’s clingy, Noah says Lucas is ignoring him. I’m hoping you and Bryce can keep them distracted long enough that they stop driving each other crazy.”

Evie nodded vigorously. “They fight all the time now. Ever since Easter. Every day. Every hour. Every—”

“Evie,” Aunt Sarah warned gently.

Evie huffed. “If I was the oldest, I’d put them in their places.”

Dylan stepped aside to let them in, but his mind was still half in the dining room reeling from the sting of Bryce’s last words. The threat of them hung in the air like smoke, choking Dylan.

“I’ll go help them,” Dylan said.

Aunt Sarah exhaled in relief. “Thank you.”

Dylan stepped out onto the porch. The cold bit at his cheeks. He could hear Noah before he saw him. His sharp, frustrated voice cut through the winter air.

“Lucas, I wanna help!”

Lucas’s reply was lower, strained. “I already gave you what you can carry. I’m carrying everything that’s too heavy for you.”

Noah crossed his arms and pouted. “You don’t want me to really help. You never want me to help.”

Lucas muttered something under his breath and hefted another bag out of the trunk.

Dylan watched them for a moment before going to help them. Lucas hunched under the weight; Noah hovered anxiously, clutching only a light duffle bag. Dylan felt a strange echo in his chest. The scene felt painfully familiar.

~*~*~*~

After the cousins had settled in, there was still time before dinner. Aunt Sarah went out to the kitchen to help with the meal, and Lucas and Dylan were given the job of starting to decorate the Christmas tree Dad had put up last night. They’d wait until after dinner to hang the ornaments, but Lucas and Dylan could at least put down the tree skirt and untangle the garland, beads, and lights.

Lucas had been working on a particularly knotted string of lights, jaw tight, trying not to snap at Noah’s latest complaint before Dylan suggested Noah go bother Bryce instead. Dylan drifted toward Lucas almost unconsciously, like gravity pulling him across the living room.

Lucas glanced up when Dylan approached. “Hey.”

Dylan swallowed. “Hey.”

Lucas handed him the other end of the lights. “Can you hold this? Noah kept pulling on it and making the knot worse.”

Dylan took it. “Yeah. I got it.”

Lucas let out a relieved breath. “Thanks.”

Together they threaded and twisted the strand until it was untangled. Lucas stretched to start hanging the string from the top of the tree and paused mid‑movement, his brow tightening as if something behind his eyes had snagged.

“Something wrong?” Dylan asked.

Lucas shook his head. “It’s nothing… just my mind being weird.”

“Tell me,” Dylan said gently. “I promise I won’t laugh.”

Lucas hesitated, then murmured, “Didn’t you used to pick me up to put the star on the tree?”

Dylan blinked. “No. You’re… uh… older than me. I wouldn’t have done that.”

“But I have this memory,” Lucas said slowly, “of my cousin grabbing me under the arms and lifting me up high to put the star on top of the tree… and you’re my oldest cousin… right?”

“Right,” Dylan said carefully. “But maybe it was my dad?”

Lucas didn’t answer right away. He stared at the tree, at the branches, at the star still sitting on the coffee table. His face shifted—confusion first, then something heavier.

“No, it wasn’t your dad,” he said quietly. “I remember it clearly. I remember being little. Really little. And someone who looked sorta like you lifted me up. He said I was his little helper.”

Dylan felt the bottom drop out of his stomach.

Bryce had done that — in the original reality, when Lucas had been five.

“That didn’t happen,” Dylan said gently. And in this reality, it hadn’t—it couldn’t have. And yet, Lucas was remembering it.

Lucas swallowed. “I know it didn’t. I know that. But I remember it anyway... it’s like a dream I had once. One where I was the little brother…”

He looked down at his hands and his voice thinned.

“I remember thinking it would be fun,” he said. “Being the big brother. Being the one who gets to help. Being the one who gets listened to.”

He shook his head, the memory flickering like a candle in wind.

“But it’s not like that,” he whispered. “It’s… it’s work. It’s all work.”

Dylan didn’t speak.

Lucas’s throat tightened. “I’ve traded away seven years of my life…”

He said it like he was only now realizing the enormity of it.

“I traded away seven years,” he repeated, voice cracking. “For what? To make Noah feel small? To make him listen to me? To make him stop ignoring me?”

He looked up at Dylan, eyes shining with something raw and frightened.

“I didn’t know,” he said. “I didn’t know how much work it was. I didn’t know how lonely it was. I didn’t know how much he’d need me. I didn’t know how much I’d have to give up.”

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“I didn’t know what I was asking for.”

And then the clarity faded like mist in the morning. Lucas blinked, shook his head, and the memory slipped away, leaving only the emotional residue behind.

He went back to untangling the lights.

But Dylan couldn’t move, because Lucas had just remembered the truth. And saying anything after that felt unnecessary.

A thought flickered through him — sharp, guilty, unwelcome.

Was Bryce gone?

No.

He shut the thought down immediately. He’d already tried every wish tradition he could think of. They’d all either backfired, failed, or gone horribly wrong. Bryce was who he was now… and Dylan had to accept that.

If he was going to fix things with Bryce, he had to stop looking to the past.

Lucas noticed Dylan’s quiet. “You okay?”

Dylan nodded. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”

Lucas didn’t push. He never did. He just kept working, steady and patient, the way Dylan remembered Bryce being.

And Dylan felt the ache of letting go.

~*~*~*~

Bryce found Noah hovering near the couch in the Den, arms crossed, glaring toward the direction of the Living Room where Bryce could hear their older brothers talking. Noah looked like he could use a distraction—and Bryce knew he sure could as well. A quick glance around the room brought a plan to mind.

Bryce cleared his throat. “Hey. I got Mario Kart World. You wanna race?”

Noah’s face brightened instantly. “Yeah! Yeah, I do! I’ll whoop your butt!”

He scrambled onto the couch beside Bryce, practically vibrating with excitement.

Bryce handed him a controller. “You okay? You seem kinda upset.”

Noah huffed. “Lucas is ignoring me.”

Bryce glanced toward the hallway. “He’s just busy.”

“No,” Noah said, voice tight. “He doesn’t want me around anymore.”

Bryce asked softly, “Why do you want to be around him so much?”

Noah shrugged, eyes glued to the controller. “Because he used to want me around. And now he doesn’t.”

Bryce’s breath caught.

Noah continued, quieter, “And I don’t know what I did wrong.”

Bryce looked down at the controller in his hands, the weight of Noah’s words settling into him like a stone.

He wondered briefly if Dylan had ever felt the same way about him when he’d been older… if that’s why Dylan had wished him younger. No. He couldn’t wonder that. So, he buried that thought as deep as he could.

They were halfway through another Mario Kart World race when Noah suddenly slowed, his kart drifting awkwardly into a wall.

Bryce frowned. “Dude, what are you doing? You were winning.”

Noah didn’t answer. He stared at the screen, brow furrowed, eyes narrowing at the track layout as if something about it was wrong.

“This isn’t right,” he murmured.

Bryce paused the game. “What do you mean?”

Noah pointed at the screen, confused. “This track… I remember it. But not like this.”

Bryce raised an eyebrow. “It’s Mario Kart World. We’ve played it a million times.”

Noah shook his head slowly. “No. I remember this track from Mario Kart 8. On the Switch.”

Bryce blinked. “I don’t have a Switch—I have a Switch 2.”

“I know,” Noah whispered. “But I remember playing it with you.”

He swallowed hard. “And I think we were older.”

Bryce’s breath caught.

Noah’s voice thinned. “I remember us being bigger. Older. And I remember Lucas being… little? Yeah… little. And he begged to play with us, and I clearly remember telling him that he had to get us snacks and drinks if he wanted a turn.”

He looked down at his controller, hands trembling.

“I made him carry stuff for us,” Noah said. “I made him get snacks. I made him clean up. And only then did I let him play one round...”

Bryce didn’t speak. This was starting to sound a lot like Charlie and Jake… how many others had changed beyond just him? Had he caused this?

Charlie had said that older Bryce—that I caused other people to change. Did I flip my cousins too?

Noah’s face crumpled. “I remember thinking it was funny. Making him feel small. Making him listen to me.”

He shook his head, horrified at himself.

“But it’s not funny being the little one,” Noah whispered. “I get that now...”

He looked up at Bryce, eyes wide and frightened.

“I think I messed everything up.”

Bryce’s throat tightened. “Noah—”

“I shouldn’t have made him take care of me,” Noah said, voice cracking. “I should’ve taken care of him. I should’ve been the one helping. I should’ve been the one looking out for him.”

And then as quick as a snap, the clarity faded. Noah blinked, confused, the memory slipping away as quickly as it had surfaced.

He looked back at the screen. “Why’d you pause? I was winning dorkface.”

~*~*~*~

Dinner had settled into the kind of chaotic hum only extended family could produce. The table was crowded with dishes—turkey, mashed potatoes, green beans, rolls, cranberry sauce—and everyone seemed to be talking at once.

Lucas sat beside Dylan, answering a question Mom had asked about Robotics Club. Noah sat on Lucas’s other side, leaning so close he was practically in Lucas’s lap.

Bryce sat across from them, watching.

Dylan nodded politely as Lucas talked about his science teacher, but his attention drifted. He wasn’t really listening. He was still replaying the moment on the couch—Bryce laughing, Noah clinging, Lucas steady—and the failed conversation afterward.

“Lucas, I beat Bryce at Mario Kart!” Noah interrupted, tugging on Lucas’s sleeve.

Lucas didn’t look away from Dylan. “Yeah, buddy. Good to hear.”

“But you didn’t see the huge blue shell right at the last second! I dodged it! I dodged it, Lucas!”

Lucas sighed softly. “I believe you.”

Bryce’s jaw tightened.

He tried to pull Noah’s attention back to him. “Hey, Noah—remember that shortcut on the Wario track? The one we found?”

Noah didn’t even turn. “Lucas, did you hear me? I dodged the blue shell!”

Bryce’s stomach twisted.

He tried again. “We could play again after dinner. I can show you the new kart I unlocked.”

Noah waved him off. “Later. Lucas, look at me!”

Evie raised her hand like she was in school. “I have something to say—”

No one heard her.

Aunt Sarah was telling Mom about a coworker’s disastrous Secret Santa exchange. Mom was nodding sympathetically, already halfway through a story of her own. Dad looked bored, but pretended to be interested.

Bryce stabbed at his potatoes. His eyes were fixed on Noah. Every time Noah tugged on Lucas’s sleeve, Bryce’s shoulders tightened a little more.

Dylan noticed. He didn’t say anything.

Dad reached for the turkey platter, carving another slice. “Anyone want more?”

Evie raised her hand again. “I do—”

Dad wasn’t looking. He carved, shifted the turkey, and paused.

“Well, look at that,” he said, pulling something pale and curved from the cavity. “Here’s the wishbone.”

Bryce’s head snapped up. Dylan looked a moment later.

Wishbone? Wait… No!

“Can I have it?” Bryce asked immediately.

Dad handed it over without hesitation. “Sure, bud.”

Bryce held the wishbone carefully, turning it in his fingers. His eyes flicked toward Dylan—just for a moment, just long enough to check whether Dylan would stop him.

Dylan didn’t move. He’d completely forgotten about the wishbone tradition. After all, how often does one eat an entire turkey or chicken anymore?

Bryce swallowed hard, then turned to Evie.

“Hey little cuz,” he said, voice steady. “Want to pull it with me?”

Evie’s eyes lit up. “Yes!”

She scrambled out of her chair, nearly knocking over her cup. Bryce stood too, holding the wishbone between them.

The table quieted.

Lucas looked up. Noah froze mid‑sentence. Aunt Sarah paused her story. Mom’s smile softened. Dad leaned back in his chair, watching.

Dylan’s breath caught. He wondered for a moment what would happen if he tried to get up and stop Bryce only to recall what his brother’s words:
Why should I trust you not to try again? You already did it! Twice!

Followed quickly by Ethan’s voice:
If you want someone to trust you, you have to give yours first. Even when it feels unfair. Even when it feels scary.

If he wanted Bryce back, he’d have to let him go. He’d have to trust his brother—even with erasure on the line. Trust that Bryce, the brother he knew, would be better than him.

~*~*~*~

Bryce looked at Dylan. He kept expecting Dylan to do something… say something. He’d told him that he was gonna erase his memories. Shouldn’t he be trying to stop him? Why wasn’t Dylan trying to protect himself?

Dylan met Bryce’s gaze. He didn’t look afraid. He looked… quietly, painfully resigned.

As if he were saying:
If you want to erase me… I won’t stop you.

Bryce’s breath caught. He hadn’t expected Dylan to give him the choice.

He had threatened and promised to erase him. He had said he wanted to destroy the memories Dylan cherished most, and Dylan was letting him.

The realization hit Bryce like a blow.

Dylan was hurting as much as he was. Maybe even more.

With that realization he had only one question left to answer:
Did he really want to erase him?

Evie tugged on the wishbone. “Ready?”

Bryce didn’t answer.

He was still staring at Dylan, stunned, hollow, shaken.

Evie pulled. Bryce hesitated, and the wishbone snapped.

Evie gasped. “I won!”

The room erupted—Aunt Sarah cheering, Mom laughing, Noah bouncing in his seat. Dad leaned back, smiling at the seemingly harmless childhood ritual.

And then in the space between one breath and the next the room shifted for Bryce and Dylan. Something was different.

“Now, Evie, you should’ve waited for your little cousin to be ready,” lightly scolded Aunt Sarah.

Little cousin?

“Uggh… Mom. I can’t help if the kid can’t focus,” a deeper voice groaned.

Bryce turned only to have to look up to see Evie’s face. Gone was the cute little five-year-old girl. In her place stood a gothic teenage girl: black lipstick, dyed black hair, black jeans, a punk band t‑shirt, fishnet sleeves. Her arms were crossed as she peered down at Bryce.

“Something wrong, little cuz?” Evie asked with a wry smile.

“Nothing,” squeaked Bryce before turning beet red and rushing back to his seat.

From across the table, Bryce heard a small voice chirp, “It’s okay, Bryce. Evie scares me too.”

Bryce looked up to see that instead of a teenage Lucas, a small preschooler sat where his once older cousin once had.

Everyone else continued talking as if nothing had changed.

Mom passed the rolls. Aunt Sarah reached for her drink. Noah kept chattering, now trying to impress Dylan instead of Lucas. And Dad carved another slice of turkey.

Only Bryce and Dylan saw it.

Bryce stared at Evie’s new height, at Lucas’s tiny hands gripping the edge of his chair, at the world rearranging itself around them without anyone noticing.

He looked down at the broken wishbone in his hand.

He had lost his chance… and learned exactly how it looked from the outside when reality changed in an instant. And he didn’t like it.

He looked at Dylan again. Not triumphantly, but with a hollowed-out glance.

He could have hurt Dylan in the deepest way possible, and Dylan wouldn’t have stopped him.

Bryce didn’t know how to feel.

He only knew he felt empty.

The room buzzed with normal dinner chatter—Evie’s older voice blending seamlessly into the conversation, Lucas’s younger voice piping up without anyone blinking—but Bryce didn’t hear any of it.

~*~*~*~

The family migrated to the living room after dinner, gathering around the television the way they did every Christmas. Mom queued up Meet Me in St. Louis without asking—no one ever objected. It was tradition.

Evie flopped onto the couch with the bored heaviness of a fourteen‑year‑old, already pulling out the phone she now had. Noah, having grown bored of trying to win Dylan’s attention, had instead stretched out on the carpet next to Bryce, trying to draw his attention through relentless poking.

Bryce wasn’t in the mood for Noah’s irritations, but he was too lost in his own thoughts to give Noah any mind.

Lucas rushed over and plopped himself down next to Noah. When Noah realized Bryce wasn’t responding, he turned and began to tickle his little brother, who giggled and squirmed at the attention.

“Noah… knock it off,” Evie intoned without looking up from her phone.

And just like that, the tickle fight stopped — as though Noah knew better than to cross his big sister.

Lucas, perturbed at the sudden withdrawal of attention, decided that meant he could full‑body tackle his big brother. Soon the two were rolling around, laughing their heads off as the opening overture to the movie played on the screen.

The adults chuckled at the sight, while Dylan couldn’t help but wonder at how different Lucas and Noah now were now that things had changed yet again.

“Hey, babes in the woods, pipe it down, the movie’s starting…” Evie said, her voice barely getting louder than a disinterested vocal fry.

“Lukey started it!” Noah teased with protest.

Lucas shook his head. “Nuh-uh! You started tickling me first! And I’m not a baby.”

“You are a baby,” Noah shot back. “You’re five.”

Lucas crossed his arms. “I’m not a baby!”

Evie groaned. “Mom, the babies are bothering me.”

Onscreen, the Smith family was in the kitchen making ketchup while different members sang the title song without a care in the world.

Aunt Sarah didn’t look away from her conversation with Mom. “Evie, just ignore them.”

“I’m trying,” Evie muttered, burying herself deeper into her phone.

Noah poked Bryce again and giggled. “Poke.”

Dad raised his voice from the recliner. “Alright, settle down. The movie’s on.”

The kids quieted—mostly. Noah plopped onto the floor, arms crossed, glaring at Evie’s phone. Lucas leaned forward, eyes wide, already captivated by the colorful images. When Tootie appeared on screen and announced her age, Lucas lit up.

“She’s five like me,” he whispered, delighted.

Evie rolled her eyes. “Congratulations.”

Though when Evie heard Tootie talk about her doll having three fatal diseases and needing a coffin for a funeral she was planning, Evie snorted and put her phone down.

Dylan sat on the loveseat, a cushion away from Evie. As the film he’d seen a million times progressed, she talked to him once—something about a prank they’d pulled together on Lucas and Bryce, a memory she thought they shared. He nodded politely, but the distance between them felt enormous. She spoke to him like they’d grown up together, but they hadn’t. Not really.

Dylan drifted away from the movie almost immediately.

His mind kept circling the wishbone.

Bryce had waited to see if he’d stop him, and he’d shown he trusted him. Bryce had hesitated and lost. Noah and Lucas were the right kind of brothers again, but only because Evie was now the oldest.

He wondered for a second: if Bryce hadn’t paused… would he have still made the wish that erased his memories? Sure, he’d shown trust to Bryce, but would Bryce show it back?

Across the room, Bryce sat on the floor near Noah, knees pulled up, arms wrapped around them. He wasn’t watching the movie. He wasn’t listening to Noah. He wasn’t looking at anyone.

He had gone quiet. He looked like he was trying to fold himself into nothing.
Dylan swallowed hard. He didn’t know how to process it either. He didn’t know how to fix anything.

The movie played on — songs, laughter, bright colors — but Dylan barely saw any of it, until the Halloween sequence reached the moment where the father came home to announce he was uprooting the family to New York. Dylan watched, half‑interested, as the family went every which direction until they were all scattered… and alone. He didn’t remember this part of the movie. So, he sat up and leaned forward.

The mother, who had just railed against her husband’s decision, quietly stood and patted him on the shoulder, asserting that if he thought it best that they move to New York, then so they would. She then went to the piano, sat down, and began to play a song Dylan didn’t remember.

“You and I… together forever… you and I…”

As the mother played, the father got up and sang to her song, and slowly the rest of the family came back into the room they had so angrily departed.

“Time goes by… but we’ll be together… you and I…”

It was in that moment Dylan realized just what would fix things between Bryce and him: time and patience.

He’d have to show up for Bryce and prove to him, over time, that he could trust him again. It might take days, weeks, months, or even a year.

And then — like a thread snapping taut — a memory hit him.

A dark voice he hadn’t heard for months slid into his mind like a cold finger:
“One year.”

Dylan’s breath caught.

In that instant he saw Bryce shrinking on the bed while the shadow man gripped his shoulders and his eyes turned violet.

He heard the words again:
“Then you may ask for him back.”
“If you still want him.”

A year. God — it had almost been a year.

Dylan’s heart thudded painfully.

He looked at Bryce again, who looked small, withdrawn, hollow, and felt the truth settle in his chest like a stone.

They had both hurt and been hurt by each other, and now the Shadow man was due to return.

And neither of them was ready.

Shit.