After his mother, father, and the Arbiter left, Atticus spent most of the day combing through his memories.
In his first life, he had lived a good fifteen years. He had achieved much. Lived a fulfilling life. Yet it was his relationship with his parents that occupied most of his thoughts.
They had loved him dearly. And he had loved them. Memory after memory surfaced, each one carrying a warmth that lingered long after it passed. The more he remembered, the deeper his affection grew. Eventually, a faint guilt began to settle in his chest.
How easy it would be to drop everything and stay. He had suffered, but they had suffered too. He could see it in his mother's eyes. Even in the cold, seemingly emotionless Attimax. Now they finally had their son back, they were happen.
Yet he was already preparing to throw himself into another storm. Did he have that right? Was he being selfish? Ungrateful?
