The morning began like most others.
The boy rose before the sun had fully broken through the fog, wrapped himself in his coat, and tucked the old list—still smudged and unfinished—into the inside pocket. The lantern didn't light, but he took it anyway. Not because he expected it to guide him today, but because it had become part of him. A weight he carried without thinking.
Calix caught up with him on the lane outside the bakery.
"Let me guess," he said, hands in his pockets, "you're walking somewhere with no real reason but a feeling."
The boy nodded.
Calix sighed and fell into step beside him. "Then I suppose I'm walking too."
They headed west, away from the familiar shops and market, past the edge of town where terraced houses leaned against one another like tired old friends. The road narrowed into cobbles. The hedges grew taller. The air smelled faintly of wet leaves and chimney smoke.
"I used to live around here," the boy said quietly. "Before the cottage. Before… everything."
"Anyone still live near your old place?"
The boy shook his head. "Not that I know of."
But he kept walking.
Past a crooked post box. Past a stone wall carved with initials.
And finally—past a house with blue shutters and an ivy-covered gate.
He stopped.
"She lived here," he said.
Calix frowned. "Who?"
"Miss Ames. She used to live two doors down from us. She ran the nursery school."
"Is she still alive?"
"I think so. If she is… she might remember."
Calix nodded. "Worth a try."
The front door opened after two knocks.
Miss Ames looked exactly how he remembered, only smaller. Her cardigan hung a little too loose on her shoulders. Her silver hair was tied back in a long plait. Her voice, when she spoke, was soft but sure.
"Well, I'll be… you've grown," she said, eyes narrowing slightly. "I know that face."
The boy offered a small smile. "Hello, Miss Ames."
"You'll have to forgive me," she said, stepping aside to let them in. "Names don't come easy anymore."
"That's all right," he said.
"I remember you were always quiet," she went on as they entered a warm sitting room. "Kept to yourself, always watching. Your grandmother used to drop off little jars of plum jam now and then."
He smiled. "She never let anyone leave empty-handed."
"I still have the last one," Miss Ames said fondly. "Never opened it."
She poured tea without asking. Her hands trembled slightly but never spilled.
The boy glanced around as they sipped. The sitting room was filled with years—porcelain plates on shelves, faded birthday cards pinned to the mantel, plants in ceramic pots by the window.
And in the corner—
A wooden chest, half-covered by a wool blanket.
Miss Ames followed his gaze.
"That old thing?" she chuckled. "Haven't opened it in years. It's mostly nursery papers. Drawings. Notes from parents."
"From when I was small?"
She tilted her head. "Possibly. Would you like to look?"
He nodded.
Calix moved to help, but Miss Ames waved him off. "Let the boy do it."
The chest creaked as it opened.
Inside: folders bound with twine. Stacks of coloured paper. A cracked photo frame.
He pulled out a few drawings—stick figures, rainbows, letters scrawled backwards.
And then—
A name tag.
Faded blue felt. The adhesive long worn away.
A child's name, stitched in careful letters.
The first two stood out.
Ca—
His breath caught.
He reached for it carefully, turned it over.
The rest of the name was there.
Five letters.
He read them once.
Then again.
But they felt… distant.
Not wrong. Just unfamiliar.
Miss Ames leaned over. "Oh, that one," she said softly. "That was yours, wasn't it?"
The boy froze.
"What?"
"I remember now," she said. "You didn't like wearing it. Always pulled it off during story time."
The boy looked down at the name.
Calix stepped closer, reading over his shoulder.
He didn't speak either.
The name looked small. Soft.
But it rang no bell in the boy's memory.
He held it gently in his hands.
"I don't remember it," he whispered.
Miss Ames placed a hand on his shoulder. "Sometimes names are the first things to leave us when the world gets loud."
The boy looked at her.
"Do you remember anything else?"
She smiled sadly. "Only that you always waited to leave until the very end of the day. As if you were afraid the stories would stop when you walked away."
They left soon after.
Miss Ames waved from the doorway as they stepped into the chilly afternoon air.
The boy tucked the name tag carefully into his pocket.
Calix said nothing for a while.
Finally, he asked, "Do you want me to say it?"
The boy shook his head.
"Not yet."
That night, he placed the name tag on the table beside the lantern.
The flame didn't flicker.
But it warmed. Steady. Patient.
He didn't say the name aloud.
He wasn't ready.
But now—
He had it.
And that changed everything.