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Chapter Text

Chapter 1: Sarah

Dance had been Sarah’s dream for as long as she could remember. The way music filled a room and moved through her body felt as natural as breathing, as essential as sunlight.

Her family never discouraged her passion, and in that relatively conservative era, encouraging a daughter to pursue dance wasn’t particularly revolutionary. But when girls reached a certain age—around eight or so—reality would creep into the conversations among mothers who sat in the dance studio’s waiting benches, watching their little angels twirl before the mirrors. They all knew the choices that lay ahead: either secure a small fortune to send your child to Juilliard’s pre-college division, or wait until they turned eighteen and let them try their luck in Hollywood. Like most families in Indianapolis, Sarah’s parents were making ends meet, neither option seemed within reach. The thought of their daughter arriving in those glittering metropolises with just two suitcases and savings that would barely last eight weeks made their hearts heavy with worry.

At Miss Patricia’s Dance Academy, Sarah’s pale pink ballet shoes traced stories across the wooden floor while parents whispered about tuition fees and living costs in hushed tones. Each pirouette she mastered was accompanied by another line item in the family’s carefully managed budget, every leap forward matched by a step back in their financial planning. The fluorescent lights of the studio cast long shadows that seemed to stretch toward distant dreams—Broadway, the American Ballet Theatre, names that sparkled like stars but felt as far away as the real ones in the Indianapolis night sky.

Sarah’s mother would sometimes catch herself watching her daughter dance, seeing both the child who first stumbled into her arms and the young woman who might one day slip away to chase bigger stages. In those moments, pride and fear danced their own duet in her heart—pride in the grace and determination that made her daughter shine, and fear of the harsh realities that waited beyond their protective embrace.

———

The accident happened just weeks before the regional championship, in that golden hour when summer bleeds into autumn. Sarah had been perfecting her solo piece, lost in the familiar embrace of music and motion, when her knee gave way with a sickening crack. The studio mirrors caught her fall in infinite replications, each reflection showing a dream shattering in slow motion.

In the hushed hospital room, the doctor’s words fell like heavy snow, burying her hopes beneath their weight. Her dancing days were over. The silence that followed seemed endless, broken only by the steady rhythm of machines and her mother’s barely contained tears.

Recovery introduced her to Miss Sullivan, a physical therapist whose gentle hands held stories of her own abandoned dreams. “The body remembers,” she would say, guiding Sarah through exercises in the quiet morning light.

“And sometimes what seems like an ending is really a redirect.”

In those days of healing, when the world outside was caught between the comfortable patterns of the past and whispers of change, Sarah began to see a different path forming before her.

The transition came slowly, like seasons shifting. In lecture halls where young men in crisp shirts dominated the front rows, Sarah found her place, turning her dancer’s discipline to the study of anatomy and healing. Her high school counselor had suggested more traditional paths—ones that led to marriage and quiet contentment—but Sarah had inherited her father’s quiet determination and her mother’s grace under pressure.

Years of dance had taught her to read bodies like stories, to understand the language of movement and pain. Now she learned to translate this knowledge into healing, her hands finding new purpose in guiding others back to strength. The same passion that once fueled her pirouettes now drove her to master the intricate choreography of rehabilitation.

In those changing times, when the world seemed to hold its breath between what was and what could be, Sarah began carving out her new path. Her background as a dancer became not a wound to hide but a gift to understand—the way bodies moved, the way they broke, and the way they could heal.

And then there was David Mitchell. They met in autumn, when the campus windows caught the last warmth of summer light. Sarah would stay after the anatomy lectures, lost in her studies of the human form, perhaps searching for scientific explanations for all the movements her body could no longer perform. David noticed her first through these quiet moments, her pencil tracing paths across paper like a dancer marking steps.

He was older, with eyes that held the steady patience of someone used to watching things grow. When he spoke of muscles and bones, his words carried the same gentle assurance that once steadied her in her dance partners’ arms. She found herself lingering longer after each class, their conversations flowing like water finding its natural course.

Spring came, as it always does, with its whispered promises of renewal. In the same room where they first shared the science of life, David offered her a future written not in anatomical terms, but in the ancient poetry of two hearts choosing to beat as one. The late afternoon light painted everything in gold, and in that moment, Sarah understood that some dances begin where others end.

Together, they built their life with the same careful precision they had learned in their studies. Their rhythms intertwined in the halls of Arlington High, where David’s track team practices often overlapped with Sarah’s afternoon therapy sessions. The studio mirrors that once reflected her arabesques were now replaced by anatomy charts in her office next to the gymnasium, but the art remained. Instead of perfecting choreography, Sarah mastered the subtle dance of healing—knowing when to push, when to hold back, when to encourage, and when to simply listen. Her hands learned a different kind of grace, one that could feel the whispered stories of injured muscles and guide them back to harmony. Sometimes, she would hear the familiar sound of David’s whistle from the track field, and smile at how their separate paths had wound together so naturally.

As the seasons turned, their love grew into something more. Emma arrived with the spring rains of 1973, her first cry as determined as her mother’s spirit. She was tiny but fierce, inheriting Sarah’s resilience and David’s thoughtful gaze. The house they chose sat on a quiet street lined with maple trees, its wooden floors already worn smooth by generations of family living. Sarah envisioned not just Emma’s future steps across those floors, but all the falls and recoveries, the determination and triumph that would mark her daughter’s path through life.

In their new home, the morning light would find Sarah balancing Emma on her hip while reviewing patient files, her daughter already learning the rhythm of a life built on passion and purpose. Between healing others and nurturing Emma, Sarah moved with the same unwavering strength that had carried her through her own transformation. David would return from his afternoon practices to find them in Sarah’s study, where medical journals shared space with Emma’s picture books, each telling their own stories of growth and discovery.

Looking back through the lens of years, Sarah could see that her accident hadn’t ended her dance career; it had transformed it. She was still interpreting music and movement, still helping bodies tell their stories—just in a different way. Her practice became known especially among young performers who arrived in her office with fear in their eyes and dreams hanging by threads. In a time when women’s dreams often went unspoken, she had found her own voice in the quiet victories of helping others reclaim their strength, one careful movement at a time.

———

The quiet rhythm of their family life shifted as Emma approached her teens. Her mother’s wisdom about healing bodies suddenly seemed irrelevant to the stirrings of adolescence, and her father’s patient coaching now felt like unwanted supervision. But one evening, Emma broke her usual pattern of brief answers and closed doors.

“There’s this kid at school,” Emma said during dinner, her fork pushing pasta around her plate. “Something Kennedy. He's eight. Just a baby, really.” She paused, something in her voice making Sarah look up from her own meal. “Miss Thompson told us his story today.”

Sarah waited, recognizing in her daughter’s hesitation the weight of something profound.

“So…there was a fire,” Emma continued quietly. “It happened few weeks back. They said it was an accident, but…” She trailed off, her usual teenage defiance softening into something more vulnerable. “He sits alone at lunch. Always has this weird look, like he's seeing something none of us can see.”

Sarah nodded slowly. She remembered the news reports—a house fire in the suburban complex near Emma’s school, tragic enough to make the local evening broadcasts. The details had been sparse: a quick response from firefighters, but not quick enough. Two parents and an infant had died in that fire. Only the boy lived.

She felt an old, familiar stirring in her chest—the same instinct that had once guided her hands in healing injured dancers. But this was different. This wasn't about mending muscles or realigning bones. This was about a soul carrying a weight too heavy for its young frame.

After Emma had retreated to her room later that night, Sarah sat in the sunroom where she’d helped so many find their way back to movement. The autumn wind whispered against the windows, and she thought about the many forms healing could take. Some wounds weren’t visible in X-rays or anatomical charts. Some required a different kind of strength—the kind she'd discovered in herself when her own dreams had shifted course.

The next morning found her at Emma’s school. Daylight caught in his hair, turning the pale gold almost silver against the autumn sky. From her spot near the fence, Sarah watched the small figure by the basketball court, struck by a gentle paradox. Those clear blue eyes, deep as summer seas yet strangely quiet, like waters after a storm. He looked like he could have stepped out of a Norman Rockwell painting—all golden hair and cherubic features—but the way he sat there alone, absently pushing the basketball back and forth, told a different story altogether. Perhaps this was what Emma had tried to describe at dinner, Sarah thought, this striking contrast between light and shadow, between what should be and what was.

Sarah approached slowly, not wanting to startle him. The boy tensed slightly, one hand reaching for his basketball.

“Hi there,” she said gently. “May I know your name?”

He studied her for a moment, then looked down at his sneakers.

“Nobody,” he mumbled, his voice barely a whisper. Then, seeming to remember something important, he straightened his shoulders slightly. “I mean... I'm Leon, ma’am.”

“Leon,” she repeated softly, “It’s a good name for a brave boy like you. I’m Sarah Mitchell. My daughter studies here as you do.”

She noticed his knuckles whitening as he gripped the basketball tighter. Her trained eye caught the slight defensive hunch in his shoulders, the way he positioned himself ready to flee. Years of working with injured athletes had taught her the importance of offering choices, of giving back control.

“You know,” she said conversationally, sitting down on the nearby bench, careful to leave plenty of space, “the cafeteria just got some new chocolate pudding cups for lunch. I was heading there myself.” She smiled, warm but not overwhelming. “Would you like to join me? Only if you want to, of course. And your basketball is welcome too.”

His gaze flickered briefly toward her face, then away again, and he gave an almost imperceptible nod. The basketball remained tucked safely against his chest, like a shield between himself and the world.

———

That evening, Sarah recounted the meeting to David as they prepared for bed.

“What would you think,” her voice was soft in the darkness of their bedroom, “about opening our home to another child?”

Chapter Text

Chapter 2: Emma

Thunder woke Emma that night. Not the low growls still echoing from the storm, but her mother’s voice, drifting up from the kitchen below. She crept downstairs in her favorite carrot-print pajamas, curious about who would visit at such an hour. Instead of visitors, she found her parents huddled over something tiny and dark on the kitchen counter.

“What's that?” she asked, startling them both. Sarah turned, revealing what looked like a wet leather glove, except it was breathing. Terrified and fascinating black eyes stared back at Emma from beneath a tiny, trembling wing.

“A baby bat,” David explained, already lining a shoebox with old towels. “The storm must have knocked it from its roost.”

Emma watched, captivated, as Sarah’s practiced hands examined the creature with the same gentle efficiency she used on her injured dancers. The bat’s wing was bent wrong, like a broken umbrella.

“Can I see it?” she whispered, standing on tiptoe to see better. “Can I help?”

The little creature was quicker than she expected. Before Sarah could warn her, Emma reached out, and the bat, terrified, snapped at her finger. It was more startling than painful, like being pinched with a tiny clothespin, but the shock of betrayal hit harder than the bite itself. Her eyes welled up with tears, not from pain, but from the hurt of trying to help something that didn't want to be helped.

“I don’t want it anymore,” she declared, cradling her barely-marked finger. “It’s mean and stupid and—and I don’t care what happens to it!”

Sarah dabbed the tiny mark with antiseptic while David made calls to the local wildlife center. They worked into the night, using an eyedropper to give the bat sugar water, keeping it warm, doing everything the rescue volunteer had suggested over the phone. Emma watched from her perch on the kitchen stool, torn between lingering hurt and worry for the creature that had rejected her help. But dawn brought silence to their makeshift intensive care unit. Emma knew something was wrong the moment she saw her father’s face in the garage. The bat lay in the shoebox, impossibly small and still, no longer trembling or squeaking. It looked almost peaceful, as if it had simply grown tired of fighting.

“Why?” The question caught in her throat. She didn’t know exactly what she was asking—why did it die, why did they try, why did it have to hurt so much to care? “If they're just going to—to—” She couldn't finish, but her eyes demanded answers her four-year-old vocabulary couldn’t express.

Sarah and David shared one of those parent-looks that Emma had learned meant they were having a whole conversation without words. It was David who finally knelt beside her, his large hand gentle on her back.

“Hey, cricket,” he said softly, using his special nickname for her. "Remember your first dance recital last month?"

Emma’s cheeks flushed. She’d stumbled during her solo, right there under the bright lights with everyone watching. The memory still made her stomach twist.

“You wanted to run off stage right then,” David continued. “Remember what Mom told you?”

Emma glanced at Sarah, who’d joined them on the garage floor, their shadows stretching long in the early morning light. “She said…” Emma twisted the hem of her pajama top, thinking. “She said it wasn't about finishing the dance perfectly. It was…” The words came back to her slowly. “It was about knowing that even if I fell, someone would be there to help me up.”

Sarah reached out, tucking a strand of auburn behind Emma’s ear. “Sometimes, sweetheart,” she said, her voice carrying the same gentle tone she used with her most frightened patients, “we help others not because we’re sure we can fix everything, but because everyone deserves to know they aren’t alone when they’re scared or hurting. Even the smallest creatures deserve that chance.”

Emma looked back at the shoebox, seeing it differently now. They hadn’t failed, she realized. They’d given the little bat a safe place to rest, warm hands to hold it, gentle voices in the dark. Maybe that mattered more than she understood.

That dawn settled something in Emma’s heart, a truth too big for herself to fully grasp yet, taking root in soil made rich by her parents’ wisdom and love. It would be years before she truly understood what had been whispered in that dim garage, before she learned that sometimes the bravest thing isn’t fixing what’s broken, but simply refusing to let something hurt alone.

That understanding would come later, in a different season of her life, when another kind of storm would bring something wounded to their door.

———

Emma didn’t hate the kid. She was just frustrated. Leon was too quiet during the day, but at night his screams would tear through the house. Sometimes she’d find him curled up in the hallway near her room, trembling and silent, like a small frightened animal. His hands would be occupied with that old lighter of his, the soft click-snap of the metal lid a constant rhythm in the darkness. She was twelve and had enough on her plate dealing with middle school drama, she didn’t need this.

“Jesus, can’t you just... I don’t know, talk?” she’d snapped at him one morning, after another night of broken sleep. Leon had just stared at his cereal bowl, his spoon moving in slow, methodical circles. The lighter was there too, placed carefully next to his bowl, its surface gleaming dully in the morning light. She’d caught her mother's sharp look from across the kitchen and stormed off to school, guilt and anger wrestling in her chest.

Her friends didn’t get it either. “What's with his hair?” they’d whisper when Leon walked past them in the halls, his bangs falling over his eyes like a shield. Megan, who thought she was always so clever, once tried to reach out and brush his hair back, laughing. “Hey, mystery boy, got something to hide?” Emma had seen Leon flinch away from the touch, his hands tightening around that old lighter of his. She felt her face burn with embarrassment, caught between defending him and wanting to fit in. Sometimes she’d pretend not to see him, turning away when he glanced in her direction with those quiet, haunted eyes.

The worst was when her parents’ attention seemed to constantly drift toward Leon. Her track meets, once a family event, now often found Sarah and David absent, staying home with Leon during his bad days. Even at dinner, every conversation somehow circled back to him—his adjustment, his needs, his progress.

Things began to shift the day she found him sitting alone on the back porch. It was a raining Sunday afternoon, one of those steady downpours that turned the world grey and small. Leon was perched on the top step, seemingly oblivious to the water streaming down his face. His soft hair was plastered to his forehead, his school uniform soaked through. His hands moved automatically, opening and closing the lighter—click-snap, click-snap—like a heartbeat in the rain. She’d never seen him try to light it; it was more like a worry stone, something to keep his hands busy while his mind wandered elsewhere.

Emma stood in the doorway for a long moment, watching him. The lighter caught what little light there was, brass surface dulled with age and countless hours of handling. She knew it was his father’s—had heard her parents talking about it late one night, debating whether it was healthy to let him keep it. In that moment, seeing him so small against the vast grey of the rain, something in her chest tightened.

“You'll catch a cold, dummy,” she’d said, but her voice had lost its edge. When he didn’t move, didn't even seem to register her presence, she felt her irritation fade into something else entirely. Instead of going back inside, she found herself stepping out into the rain. Her socks squished in her shoes as she sat down beside him, letting the rain soak through her clothes too.

The rhythm of the lighter continued between them—click-snap, click-snap. Up close, she could see his fingers trembling slightly, though from cold or emotion she couldn't tell. She wanted to say something, to fill the silence with words that might help, but for once she held her tongue. Maybe, she thought, this was what he needed—not her anger or frustration or attempts to fix him, but just someone willing to sit with him in the rain.

They stayed like that until Sarah found them, her worried call cutting through the steady drum of raindrops. Emma looked up to see her mother framed in the doorway, hand pressed to her mouth at the sight of her two children drenched and huddled on the porch steps.

The boy's confusion lingered like a shadow. Sarah spoke to Emma, mapping out their complicated reality with measured words. Emma was no fool—she comprehended the situation intellectually, her mind tracing the contours of their shared challenge. But emotions are not always so neat, and a raw, uncomfortable jealousy was taking root, not yet fully recognized or confronted. The click-snap of his lighter had become the soundtrack to their meals, driving Emma crazy until one night she’d bursted.

“Can you stop with that thing for five minutes?” she’d shouted, making everyone jump. “God, it's like you’re doing it on purpose!”

Sarah had frowned, one hand up trying to calm her eldest. Leon didn’t seem to hear her, lost in whatever dark place his mind had wandered to. The lighter continued its maddening rhythm—click-snap, click-snap. Emma felt something snap inside her.

“Hey! I'm talking to you!” Her fort shot out before she could stop herself, knocking the lighter from his grasp. It clattered across the kitchen floor.

“What’s wrong with you?”

The moment the words left her mouth, she’d regretted them. his face draining of color as if she’d struck him instead of the lighter. For a terrible second, he looked exactly like that frightened eight-year-old they’d first met, lost and alone. David had said her name in that warning tone that made her stomach drop, while Sarah looked disappointed in a way that hurt worse than anger. But it was the way Leon had quietly stood up, retrieved the lighter from where it had skidded under the cabinet, and slipped it back into his pocket, his hands now fidgeting uselessly in his lap, that had made her feel truly awful.

That night, Emma couldn’t sleep, the scene from dinner playing over and over in her mind. She’d heard Leon’s usual nightmares, but this time they seemed worse. As she passed his room to get some water, she noticed his door was slightly ajar—unusual, as he always kept it firmly shut. Through the gap, she could see him sitting on his bed, arms wrapped around his knees, the lighter nowhere in sight.

Something in his rigid posture reminded her of the injured athletes and dancers she’d seen in their mother’s office. She’d watched Sarah work countless times, her gentle hands easing tension from locked muscles, her presence alone somehow making pain more bearable. Moving with the same careful certainty she'd observed in her mother, Emma sat on the edge of the bed. Slowly, she placed her hands on Leon’s shoulders, feeling the tremors running through him. His muscles were wound tight as steel cables, but he didn’t pull away.

Gradually, she guided him to lie back, the way she’d seen Sarah do with particularly tense patients. It took time, but eventually his body began to unlock, one muscle group at a time, until he was lying on his side, curled slightly but no longer defensive. His eyes were open, watching her with a mix of vulnerability and wonder, as if seeing a different sister than the one who’d snapped at him hours before.

Emma tucked his brother under the comforter, and settled herself against the headboard, suddenly exhausted by the weight of the evening. She meant to stay awake, to make sure he was truly okay, but the rhythm of his now-steady breathing and the quiet of the night pulled her under.

The next morning, she’d come down to breakfast expecting the usual awkward silence. Instead, she found her favorite blueberry muffin on her plate—the last one from yesterday’s batch that she knew Leon had been saving for himself. He was already at the table, quietly doing his homework from the classes he’d missed yesterday. When she glanced at him, confused, he kept his eyes down, but she noticed he’d pushed the morning comics her way—the ones she always read first, even though he usually got to them before her.

It took her months to notice how Leon would duck into empty classrooms or take longer routes between classes whenever he saw her with her friends. At first, she thought he was just being weird again, but then she caught the way his eyes would follow her from a distance, a mix of longing and resignation in his expression. He was trying to protect her, she realized, from the embarrassment of having a weird foster brother.

These little gestures started standing out to her now that she was paying attention. The way he’d turn down the volume of his video games the moment she started her homework, without her having to ask. She spotted him at her track meets, always sitting alone in the highest corner of the bleachers. He’d be there for every race, that familiar lighter turning over and over in his hands, but would disappear into the crowd the moment she looked his way. Even the lighter—she realized he’d been trying to muffle its sound with his sleeve during family movie nights, though his hands would shake more with the effort.

That night, for the first time since Leon had come to live with them, Emma heard no screams. Instead, there was just the soft click-snap of the lighter from his room, a sound that no longer seemed quite so annoying. Maybe, she thought as she drifted off to sleep, they were both learning how to be siblings in their own way.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3: Arlington

The halls of Arlington High School held different meanings for Emma during her sophomore year. At sixteen, she moved through them with the easy confidence of someone coming into their own, but her green eyes constantly scanned the crowds, watching for her younger brother. Four years of being Leon’s sister had taught her that strength came in many forms, including the quiet vigilance she maintained over him between classes.

“You don’t have to walk me to class every day,” Leon would sometimes protest, his voice carrying that mix of gratitude and embarrassment unique to younger siblings. But Emma would just shake her head, her ponytail swaying with the motion.

“I like the exercise.” She’d say with a half-smile, both of them knowing it wasn’t about the walking at all.

The October afternoon that changed everything started like any other. Emma was heading to track practice when she caught sight of Leon near the terrace, surrounded by a group of seniors she knew all too well. The autumn wind carried fragments of their taunts across the field.

“Hey!” Her voice cut through the afternoon air like a whip. “Back off!”

The group of boys turned, their loose circle around Leon breaking slightly. Tommy Reeves stood at their center, his letterman jacket a splash of red against the grey sky. A mean grin spread across his face as he spotted Emma. He then turned, his sneer visible even from a distance. “Well, if it isn't the big sister. Always fighting your brother’s battles, Mitchell?”

Emma felt her hands curl into fists, that familiar heat rising in her chest. “You’re real brave,” she shot back, closing the distance between them with quick strides, “five seniors against one freshman. Must make you feel real tough, huh?”

Tommy’s eyes lit up with cruel amusement. “Aw, we’re just having a friendly chat with our buddy Leon here.” He turned to his friends with exaggerated concern. “Right, guys? Just trying to figure out why he's so... different.” The last word dripped with mockery. “I mean, who even are his real parents? Maybe they gave him up ‘cause they knew something was wrong with him.”

Emma felt her blood run cold. Behind Tommy, she saw Leon flinch almost imperceptibly.

“Hey, Leon,” Tommy called over his shoulder, clearly enjoying himself now. “How's it feel knowing the only reason you got a family is ‘cause Coach Mitchell felt sorry for you? Bet they regret it now, having to pretend you're actually their kid—”

“Shut up,” Leon's voice was quiet but clear, surprising everyone.

“Or what?” Tommy spun around, his entertainment turning to anger at the unexpected defiance. “Oh, what's this? The charity case finally learned to talk back?” He grabbed for Leon’s hair, yanking him forward. “Maybe someone needs to teach you your place, freak.”

Leon let out a sharp gasp of pain. Emma lunged forward instantly, her hands connecting hard with Tommy’s chest. “Let go of him, you shit!”

In that moment of chaos, Leon twisted against Tommy's grip, strands of hair tearing free. Before anyone could react, his fist connected with Tommy’s jaw in a clumsy but determined punch. The larger boy's head snapped back, more from surprise than force.

Everything happened at once then. Tommy staggered, his shock quickly turning to rage. His face flushed dark red as he regained his balance, all pretense of playing to the audience gone. Blood trickled from where his teeth had cut into his lip.

“You little piece of—” The shove came with all his fury behind it, his varsity-trained arms unleashing their full force. Leon's back slammed against the elevated terrace, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs. For one terrifying second, he teetered there on the edge, his sneakers scraping against the concrete as he tried to find his balance, too late. Then the rusted railing groaned, giving way just enough, and Leon pitched backwards into empty air.

Emma watched in horror as Leon stumbled backward over the courtyard's second-floor gallery. She heard someone scream – maybe it was her – as her brother plunged towards the atrium floor below. Time seemed to slow, the world narrowing to her brother's falling form.

Then something remarkable happened in that suspended moment. Like a startled cat, Leon's body turned in the air, a motion as natural as breathing yet completely unexpected. The late autumn light caught his silhouette as he twisted, and for a heartbeat, time seemed to slow. His landing wasn’t perfect, one knee hitting the concrete a bit too hard, hands catching his balance awkwardly, but there was something utterly captivating about it all, that same mysterious grace you might see in a feline righting itself mid-fall.

The watching crowd fell into a stunned silence, their previous taunts forgotten in the face of something they couldn't quite explain. Even Tommy stood there with his mouth slightly open, the cruel edge of his sneer forgotten.

“Leon!” Emma's voice cracked as she gripped the iron railing, her body half-hanging over the edge of the gallery, her brother was still crouched on the ground, looking as startled by what he’d done as everyone else. “Leon? Are you okay?”

Before Leon could answer, a sharp voice cut through the crowd: “What's going on here?” Mr. Peterson, the chemistry teacher, was striding toward them, his face stern.

Tommy and his friends melted away into the dispersing crowd, but Emma barely noticed. She was focused on Leon, who was slowly straightening up, looking as surprised by what he’d done as everyone else.

Emma down to the floor, rushing to his side, hands hovering uncertainly over his body. Her fingers moved quickly but gently, checking for injuries—first his head, then his shoulders, down to his scraped palms and knees. “Are you hurt? Can you move everything? Should I call dad and mom?”

“I'm okay,” he responded softly, though she could feel a slight tremor in his shoulders as she helped him stand. “Really, Em. I'm fine.”

———

It’s past 4pm. Emma sat on the bench in the school infirmary, her hands still trembling. Though the school nurse had assured her Leon was fine, her heart refused to slow. She stole a glance at her brother sitting on the examination bed, quietly letting the nurse tend to his scraped knee.

Emma stood and walked to his side. Looking down at him, she felt a sudden tightness in her throat. “I’m supposed to protect you,” her voice caught slightly. “Not have you sticking up for me.”

Leon reached over, taking her hand in his. His palm was warm against hers, steady where she trembled. “You always protect me,” he said steadily. “I need to start being brave, for you too. That’s what family does, right?”

Emma felt heat prick at the corners of her eyes. She shook her head. “What happens when I graduate? Who’s going to look out for you then?”

A small smile touched Leon’s lips, though his hands were still shaking slightly. “I'll be okay,” he said quietly, then added with a nervous laugh that didn't quite mask his anxiety, “At least now we know I can survive a fall like a cat. Just... don’t tell Mom I need nine lives.”

Emma couldn’t help but laugh through her tears. Leon squeezed her hand gently. “You know, Em... I learned from the best,” he said softly. “You taught me how to stand up again, no matter how hard I fall.”

She wiped her face with her free hand, studying her brother. All these years, she’d felt the need to protect this quiet boy, but in this moment, she realized he might be stronger than she’d ever imagined.

The incident sparked a change in the Mitchell household. Sarah and David noticed Leon’s remarkable agility, leading to conversations about his future that had never seemed quite right before.

“Football?” David suggested one evening over dinner, his enthusiasm barely contained. “You're quick on your feet, son. Could make a great cornerback.”

Leon pushed his peas around his plate, his silence speaking volumes. Emma watched him from across the table, recognizing the familiar signs of her brother trying to please others at his own expense. But then a small nod followed. Leon’s need to please, especially his adoptive father, won over his hesitation.

Emma watched from across the table, frowning. “Dad,” she interrupted, “remember when you told me I had to find my own path? That not everyone is built for track?”

“Em, I think I’ll be fine… I want to give it a try.” Leon muttered.

The next Monday found Leon at football practice, looking small among the other freshmen players. He managed well at first, his natural agility making up for his slight frame. But during a routine defensive drill, a collision with a much larger running back sent him crashing hard into the turf. He tried to get up, wavering slightly, his arm clutched to his side.

Sarah was furious.

Later that evening, Leon lay on the physio bed in Sarah’s study, an ice pack pressed against his ribs. The familiar scent of her medical supplies and therapeutic oils filled the room as she carefully examined the bruising along his side. Emma sat cross-legged on the floor beside him, pretending to do her homework while keeping a watchful eye on her brother.

“I’ve told you he’s not built for this kind of violence, David,” Sarah’s voice was sharp with worry and anger as she applied another cold compress. “He could have been seriously hurt!”

“Every sport has its risks,” David argued back from the doorway, though his voice held a note of uncertainty. “He just needs time to learn—”

“He needs to find something that builds him up, not breaks him down,” Sarah cut in firmly, her hands never pausing in their gentle care of Leon’s injuries. The tension in the room was palpable, a rare argument brewing between them.

David eventually sighed, the fight seeming to drain from him as he watched his wife tend to their son. Sarah's voice softened. “Love, Leon needs to find his own way.”

“Oh! What about dancing?” Emma perked up suddenly, her eyes bright with mischief. “Mom used to be a dancer!”

Leon’s face scrunched up immediately, already picturing himself awkwardly attempting a waltz in a  tuxedo. “No way,” he muttered, shooting a glare at his sister when he caught her trying to hide her grin. He knew that look, she was definitely imagining him stumbling through ballroom steps. “I’m not dancing. Absolutely not.”

The way revealed itself the following days. Emma was leaving late from track practice when she passed the gymnasium and found Leon standing in the doorway, transfixed by the gymnastics team’s practice. The sound of bodies moving through space, the controlled power of each movement, the precision and grace—she saw it all reflected in her brother’s eyes.

She made a point of mentioning it to her parents.

“Mom,” she said, catching her mother reading in the living room that evening while David was preparing dinner, the familiar scent of pot roast filling the air. “I think Leon found something today.”

Sarah paused her reading, turning to face her daughter. “Yes, sweetie?”

“The gymnastics team,” Emma said, hopping onto a counter stool, helping her father. “You should have seen his face, Mom. He was watching them practice, and... I don’t know, it was like something clicked.”

Sarah’s eyes lit up with understanding, a slow smile spreading across her face. The next afternoon, she approached Leon in her study, where he was still nursing his football injuries. “You know,” she said casually, settling into her chair, “I heard the gymnastics team is looking for new members.”

Leon thought about the gymnasts’ physiques—how they combined flexibility and power with such finesse. He was genuinely intrigued by the way they moved—fluid and precise, their motions a seamless blend of strength and grace. Watching them, he felt captivated by the seemingly impossible balance they achieved. The thought struck him: learning gymnastics might be a way to harden himself, to build confidence and a sense of security he had long sought. Their bodies seemed to symbolize a perfect equilibrium of softness and strength, a quality he found himself increasingly drawn to.

The transformation that followed was like watching a flower slowly unfold in the sun. At first, Leon was hesitant, conscious of being one of the few beginners in the group. But his natural agility, the same grace that had saved him during the fall, served him well. The quiet, reserved boy who had always seemed slightly out of step with the world found his rhythm on the mats and bars.

The work was demanding, requiring a discipline that seemed to resonate with something deep inside him. Hours of practice, countless falls, and endless repetitions of movements until they became second nature. Where football had felt like forcing himself into someone else’s mold, gymnastics felt like discovering a language his body had always known how to speak.

Sarah would often find him in the gym after particularly intense sessions, his body trembling with exhaustion but still attempting one more routine.

Watching him now, confident and focused on the high bar, Sarah sometimes found it hard to reconcile this Leon with the frightened eight-year-old who used to wake the house with his screams. That lighter was still in his gym bag, but it spent more time there than in his hands these days. The shadows in his eyes hadn’t completely disappeared—they probably never would—but they no longer seemed to consume him.

“That’s enough for today, hon,” she'd call from the doorway. Leon would catch her eye in the mirror, offering that gentle half-smile she’d come to know so well. How many years had it taken, she wondered, for that smile to reach his eyes?

“Just one more sequence, Mom?” he’d ask, already knowing her answer. The easy way he called her ‘Mom’ now still made her heart swell, remembering how long it had taken him to first use that word, how carefully he’d tested it out, as if afraid it might be taken away.

“You’re pushing yourself too hard again,” Sarah would say as her experienced hands found the knots in his shoulders. Leon had grown tall enough that she had to reach up slightly now—another reminder of how far they’d come from the small, traumatized boy who used to make himself as tiny as possible in the corner of her treatment room.

“Mmm,” he’d hum in agreement, then add with a touch of dry humor, “but at least you’ll always have job security with me around.” That would earn him a gentle swat on the shoulder. This playful side of him was still something of a miracle to her, each joke, each casual touch, each moment of normal teenage sass felt like a victory over the past.

“Your body’s growing fast,” she’d remind him, working through layers of fatigue. She could feel him gradually relaxing under her care, so different from those early days when any physical contact would make him flinch. Now he leaned into her touch with the easy trust of a child who knew he was safe, who had finally learned that some hands were meant for healing.

“You know what I like best?” he’d say softly, in that thoughtful way of his. “When I'm up there on the bar, everything makes sense. It's like... complete freedom through complete control. Does that sound weird?”

Sarah would smile, her heart full. She understood what he wasn't saying—how the discipline of gymnastics had given him a way to reclaim control over his life, how the predictable physics of movement had helped ground him when his memories threatened to overwhelm.

“Not weird at all,” she’d say, continuing her careful work on his shoulders. “That's exactly how I used to feel about dancing.” Her hands would pause briefly as she added, “Though I have to say, watching you on that high bar gives me more grey hairs than I'd like to admit.”

“Sorry about that,” he’d chuckle, then wince slightly as she found a particularly tight spot. “Ouch, okay, maybe you have a point about the ‘pushing too hard’ thing.”

“Of course I do,” she’d say with motherly satisfaction, allowing herself a moment to marvel at how natural this felt now—this easy banter, this comfortable routine they’d built together. Almost a decade ago, she couldn't have imagined they’d get here, couldn't have known how completely this quiet, wounded child would work his way into her heart.

———

By his junior year, Leon had become one of the team’s strongest members. His routines on the horizontal bar drew particular attention, there was something captivating about the way he moved through the air, a controlled power that made even the most difficult sequences look effortless. His work ethic became almost legendary among his teammates; he was often the first to arrive and the last to leave, pushing himself through one more repetition, one more sequence, one more landing until everything was perfect.

At seventeen, three years of rigorous gymnastics training had sculpted him into an athlete’s form—lean but powerful, with the distinctive build of a gymnast. His height balanced by the graceful strength developed through countless hours on the apparatus. His shoulders and upper back had broadened from work on the rings and horizontal bar, while his core had become solid as steel. Despite the intensive training, he maintained an almost ethereal quality—fair skin that refused to tan, and hair that had lightened to an ashy blonde, falling in his eyes unless he pushed it back. But it was those eyes that drew attention—a striking blue that seemed to hold both intensity and gentleness, set above cheekbones that had lost their childhood softness.

His unintentional appeal didn't go unnoticed in Arlington’s hallways. Girls would whisper behind their notebooks when he passed, debating whether his eyes were more like summer skies or ocean depths. The football team captain once spent an entire lunch period trying to convince Leon to join them instead, insisting his agility would make him an exceptional wide receiver, though his lingering glances suggested there might be other reasons he wanted Leon around. And there was that, the volleyball team had taken to practicing in the gym during his training sessions, their games mysteriously scheduled to coincide with his routines.

Leon remained oblivious to most of it, and when he did catch fragments of admiring conversations, he’d duck his head, letting his hair fall forward to hide the flush creeping across his cheeks. Despite the growing number of carefully folded notes that found their way into his locker, he kept to himself, neither encouraging nor discouraging the attention. The few times someone worked up the courage to directly approach him, he'd respond with a quiet politeness that somehow made him even more intriguing—this beautiful boy who seemed to exist in his own world, just out of everyone's reach.

Coaches from other schools would sometimes pause to watch him practice, and whispers of potential scholarships began to circulate. But for Leon, it had never been about the recognition. There was something about the discipline, the precise control required for each movement, that seemed to center him in a way nothing else had before.

Jason Martinez, a senior who was already eighteen, had watched Leon’s progress from the start, from that awkward freshman stumbling through basic routines to the focused junior he’d become. Unlike most of their teammates who lived and breathed competition, Jason had a different kind of intensity about him, one that seemed to look beyond the gym’s walls.

“Hey, rookie,” he'd called out one day after watching Leon practice the same dismount for nearly an hour. Despite Leon no longer being the new kid, the nickname had stuck, carrying the warmth of their three-year friendship. “Your form’s gettin’ better, but you’re thinking too much. Let your body remember instead of your big head.” Coming from anyone else, it might have sounded condescending, but Jason’s warm grin and encouraging nod made it feel like sharing a secret.

“You're literally two months older than me,” Leon landed his dismount with a slight wobble, throwing Jason an exasperated look. “Maybe save the wise master routine for someone who hasn’t seen you get stuck in the foam pit trying to impress Jessica.”

“C’mon dude, that was one time!” Jason protested, ears turning red. “And the foam was deeper than usual.”

“Sure, ancient one. Any other words of infinite wisdom from your vast sixty days of seniority?” Leon deadpanned as he smoothly pressed into a perfect handstand, his form perfectly aligned against the flowing light streaming through the windows.

“That was some solid life experience, man,” Jason grinned.

Their late-evening practices had become something of a ritual. After the rest of the team had left, the gymnasium would fall into a different kind of quiet. The fading sunlight would stream through the high windows, casting long shadows across the mats, and the usual competitive tension would give way to a more contemplative atmosphere. They worked in comfortable silence most times, spotting each other on difficult moves, offering quiet suggestions, sharing the unspoken understanding of two people dedicated to mastering their craft.

“You know what this place needs?” Jason asked one evening as they were rolling up the mats. His usual playful demeanor had faded into something more thoughtful. “More people who give a damn.”

Leon looked up, caught by the sudden change in his friend's tone. “What do you mean?”

Jason’s face turned serious, his hands stilling on the mat. “My cousin got mixed up with some pretty fucked up people last year.”

“Wha—you mean Emilio?”

“Yeah, Emilio. When we went to the cops…” he continued but then trailed off, shaking his head. “Let's just say not all of them were interested in helping.”

Something shifted in Leon’s expression, a shadow of memory crossing his face. He thought about the officer who had pulled him from the flames that night, about how different things might have been if that one person hadn't cared enough to act.

“I get it,” he said quietly. “More than you know.”

The silence between them held the weight of shared understanding. Then Jason spoke again, his voice carrying a newfound certainty. “You know, I'm not continuing with gymnastics after graduation.”

Leon paused in rolling up the mat, surprised. Jason was one of their best gymnasts, with several colleges already showing interest. “But you could easily get a scholarship—”

“Yeah, maybe.” Jason shrugged, but there was no regret in his voice. “But I’ve already applied to the police academy. After what happened with Emilio... I want to make sure other families get the help they need, you know?”

Leon studied his friend’s face, seeing the same determination he’d shown in perfecting difficult routines now directed toward something bigger.

“Besides,” Jason continued, a slight smile forming, “all this—” he gestured at the gymnastics equipment around them, “—it's taught us discipline, control, how to think on our feet. Could be useful for a police officer.”

Leon nodded slowly. He thought again about that night and the police officer whose face he could not remember but whose firm grip remained vivid in his memory. It reminded him of how one person’s courage could change everything. His own path was starting to become clearer.

edit: 01/08/2025 21:12 GMT+8 Taipei Time