William is dead. And so is his wife. And their son is turning seven in a house that was never meant to be his, under the care of a man who was never meant to stand in his place.
But I am here. And the only service I can render the dead is to live for the living.
He dressed with more care than usual—the dark blue coat Lorraine had once, in a quiet midnight confidence, admitted she admired—and went to the nursery before Thomas had stirred.
The room had been transformed.
Lorraine’s “quiet plans” had been executed with a thoroughness that might have impressed a general. Paper garlands looped from beam to beam in chains of blue and gold. A banner had been fashioned and hung with care, its letters painstakingly painted to readHappy Birthday, Thomas.
Upon the table stood a cake—small, valiant, iced in white and crowned with seven slightly uneven candles—the triumph of Cook’s ingenuity under constrained circumstances.
The gifts were arranged beside it.
Watercolours from Lorraine—proper ones. A knitted scarf from Jenny, endearingly uneven. A book of bird illustrations procured by Mrs Potter. A finely crafted wooden box from Graves, intended for Master Thomas’s treasures.
And in Dominic’s pocket, wrapped in cloth, lay the compass.
William’s compass; brass, tarnished with time.
William had carried it through every campaign. Dominic remembered him turning it in his hands by firelight, smiling faintly.My grandfather’s. Supposed to always point you home.
It had been in William’s pocket when he died.
Dominic had taken it then—without thought, without permission—and carried it back across an ocean, only to hide it away in darkness.
It was time to let it find its way to the person who needed it most.
Footsteps approached. Lorraine’s voice:
“—eyes closed, Thomas. No peeking.”
“But why?”
“Because I have said so, which is argument enough. Mind the step.”
They appeared in the doorway—Lorraine guiding him, Thomas with his eyes squeezed shut, every line of him vibrating with anticipation.
Dominic’s chest tightened.
They look like mother and son.
The thought came without resistance.
“Open your eyes, Thomas.”
He did.
He stared—at the garlands, the banner, the cake, the gathered faces—and then at Dominic.
“Is this… for me?” he whispered.
“Happy birthday, Thomas,” Dominic said, his voice roughened despite himself. “You are seven today. That seemed reason enough.”
Something in the boy’s face transformed—no cautious smile, no guarded brightness, but something radiant and unrestrained. He seemed to glow.
“No one’s ever—” He faltered. “Last year Grandpapa was—and then Grandmama—”
He could not finish.
