Page 46 of Julian

Not just embarrassment but a flicker of awareness of Father Time, knocking on his doorstep.

“It was a brief, one-time lapse,” he says, as though offering an explanation will reestablish equilibrium. “Nothing more.”

“Of course,” I answer, though my eyes linger on him.

I’ve taken for granted Percy’s steady presence, his unerring precision, the quiet competence that he has carried through every phase of my life without alteration.

Until now.

“You’re all right?” I ask gently.

“Perfectly, sir.” The answer comes easily.

And for the first time in as long as I can remember, I find myself questioning it.

I nod anyway, allowing him the dignity of his response, of the control he’s so carefully reasserting.

My mind is so wrapped up in Percy and picking up the broken frame, I just now realize the photo the frame was holding, it’s of her… of them.

Kylie is laughing, her head tipped back just slightly, her dark curls loose around her shoulders, her expression so alive I can almost hear her laughter. And beside her, cradled in the curve of her arm, is Ben—so small it feels almost impossible, swaddled in a blanket that dwarfs him, his face soft and untroubled, untouched by anything the world would eventually ask of him.

I don’t speak.

Behind me, Percy shifts his weight imperceptibly, and I know without turning that he’s seen it—that he understands exactly which photograph fell, what it holds, and what it does to me.

“I’ll have that repaired,” he says quietly.

I let my thumb trace the edge of the frame, careful of the broken glass, as if the gesture itself might preserve something that can’t actually be preserved.

“It was taken the day we brought him home,” I say, my voice steady, though it echoes as though it’s coming from somewhere slightly removed.

There’s a pause, gentle and measured. “I recall the day very well, sir.”

Of course he remembers. He drove us home that day.

Percy has always remembered the things that matter, even when I’ve tried not to.

I set the frame back onto the table, aligning it instinctively with the others, though the crack running through it leaves it imperfect and draws the eye no matter how carefully I place it.

“I know,” he says, “that this time of year is… difficult.”

There’s no pity in it. No attempt to soften the truth beyond what’s necessary. Just an acknowledgment, offered plainly, the way he’s always done when the subject cannot be avoided.

I let out a faint breath. “That’s one way of putting it.”

He studies me with that same steady presence that has made it possible for me to endure more than I would have otherwise been able to.

“You’ll have that love again, one day,” he says.

It isn’t hopeful in the conventional sense. No attempt to persuade me toward a conclusion I haven’t already rejected. It’s simply placed there between us.

I turn to look at him, really look this time, but I don’t yet respond. Not because I don’t have an answer, but because I understand exactly what he’s offering, and just as clearly why I cannot accept it.

“Percy,” I say, “once one has experienced perfection…” I let the thought settle, allowing it to arrive exactly as it is. “It doesn’t come twice.”

The words don’t sound bitter. They’re simply true.

He holds my gaze, and I can see that disagreement he won’t voice, that belief he carries on my behalf even when I refuse to carry it myself.