Quinn finished dressing in a daze.
By the time he buttoned the last of his shirt, he could barely remember doing it. One suspender hung slightly loose against his side, and his white shirt was rumpled beneath his vest, as though his hands had gone through the motions while his mind was somewhere else entirely.
He stood in the middle of the room for a moment, staring at the closed bedroom door.
Beyond it waited a family.
His family, if the memories now lodged inside his head were to be believed.
He drew a slow breath, opened the door, and stepped into the hall.
The floorboards creaked beneath his feet.
Morning light spilled through the narrow window at the end of the corridor, washing the wallpaper in pale gold. His hand found the stair rail without thought, fingers settling naturally into grooves worn smooth by years of use.
That simple familiarity sent a chill through him.
He descended slowly.
With each step, the smell grew stronger.
Fresh bread.
Sausage sizzling in its own grease.
Coffee.
Warm, rich, and deeply comforting.
His stomach tightened with hunger.
It felt wrong that his body recognized the smell before his mind did.
By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs, his mouth was watering.
He followed the voices into the dining room.
The floor creaked softly as he stepped into the doorway.
For a moment, he simply stood there.
The scene before him was so ordinary that it nearly unraveled him.
Calder sat at the table, eating with the reckless determination of a ten-year-old boy who seemed convinced his breakfast might vanish if he paused for too long. Crumbs littered the space around his plate.
Across from him sat Roran.
Broad-shouldered and solidly built, Roran looked like a man who had spent most of his life doing hard physical work. His dark hair was touched with gray at the temples, and his expression carried the easy steadiness of someone who anchored the room without trying.
One hand held a folded newspaper.
The other rested around a coffee cup.
He looked up as Quinn entered, and his stern features softened.
"Morning, Quinn."
"Morning, Roran."
The reply came without hesitation.
Too easily.
Roran seemed to notice nothing unusual.
A blur slipped past Quinn.
Elin dropped into her chair with a book already open in her hands. Her hair was tied back in a loose knot, and a faint grease smudge marked one wrist. She barely glanced at her plate before taking a bite.
Roran tapped the table with one finger.
"Elin, you could at least wait until you're seated before you start reading."
"Mmh."
She turned a page without looking up.
Roran exhaled through his nose.
The sound was equal parts exasperation and affection.
Maris Hatchlock emerged from the kitchen a moment later.
Quinn recognized her instantly.
Her graying hair was pinned neatly back. Her apron was worn soft with use. She moved with the calm certainty of someone who had repeated this same morning ritual thousands of times.
The moment she saw him, her face brightened.
"There you are."
She placed a plate in his hands and guided him gently toward his seat.
Quinn sat because resisting her felt impossible.
Maris kissed the top of his head and smoothed his hair back with practiced fingers.
"Eat while it's hot," she said. "You've got a long day ahead of you."
Memories rose at once.
The mill.
The heavy smell of sawdust and oil.
The ache in his shoulders after a shift.
The foreman who barked more than he spoke.
He had worked there before, taking extra shifts whenever the school was closed or money ran tight.
The knowledge settled into place before he could question it.
"Yes, Mother," he said. "Thank you."
Maris smiled warmly.
"That's my boy."
She returned to the kitchen.
Quinn stared down at his plate.
Fresh bread.
Steaming sausage.
Eggs cooked exactly the way he liked them.
His stomach clenched with sudden hunger.
Across the table, Calder looked up.
"You're really going to the mill today?"
Quinn tore off a piece of bread.
"I am."
Calder wrinkled his nose.
"Why would anyone want to?"
"Because," Elin said without lifting her eyes from her book, "money is useful."
Calder considered that.
"Fair."
Roran chuckled softly.
Quinn found himself smiling.
The breakfast passed in a blur of ordinary conversation.
Calder recounted some schoolyard dispute with the seriousness of a political crisis.
Elin turned pages and inserted occasional dry remarks.
Maris asked if Quinn had remembered his gloves.
Roran read snippets from the paper and shook his head at city politics.
Quinn answered when spoken to, careful and measured.
But the more he listened, the easier it became.
The rhythms were familiar.
The pauses.
The teasing.
The unspoken affection woven through every exchange.
By the time he finished eating, the knot in his chest had loosened, though it never disappeared entirely.
He set down his fork.
"I should get going."
Maris rose immediately and disappeared into the kitchen.
She returned with a wrapped lunch bundle and pressed it into his hands.
"You'll forget this if I don't hand it to you myself."
"Thank you."
"Try not to work too hard."
Calder waved enthusiastically.
"Bye, Quinny!"
Elin turned a page.
"Try not to lose any fingers."
"Elin."
"What? It happens."
Roran stood and folded his newspaper.
"I'm heading out too."
Of course he was.
The memories supplied it at once.
Roran worked at the freight yards and left each morning around the same time Quinn left for the mill.
Quinn nodded.
Together they stepped into the hallway.
Maris fussed with Quinn's collar, straightening it with quick, practiced motions.
"You dressed in a hurry."
"I noticed."
She smiled and smoothed his shoulder.
Then she stepped back.
"Have a good day, boys."
Roran pulled on his coat and opened the front door.
Cool morning air drifted inside, carrying the scent of wet stone and distant smoke.
Quinn adjusted the lunch under his arm and stepped onto the porch.
Roran followed, closing the door quietly behind them.