Page 23 of Finding His Fox

I picked up the bags from the ground and joined him. It took immense courage for him to return to this house of horrors, and my admiration for Nate grew even stronger.

"Nate?" I gently prodded.

"I'm fine," Nate responded, his voice a little hoarse and cracking slightly.

He flashed me a strained smile, and then Nate spent the next few minutes fumbling for the key to the front door.

I set down the bags and gently placed my hand over his trembling fingers. Nate didn't protest as I unlocked the door for him.

Picking up the bags once again, I pretended not to notice that Nate was on the verge of a breakdown.

We stepped inside, our feet sinking into the frayed carpeting. Most of the furniture was covered with plastic sheets and old bed sheets. The smell of mold hung heavy in the air.

Nate began exploring the rooms on the first floor, and I took the opportunity to open some windows, allowing fresh air to circulate. I doubted Nate would mind.

"Rory did a great job. The house looks exactly as I left it," Nate remarked after emerging from the first-floor bathroom. "This way."

We entered the dining room, and Nate paused, his gaze fixed on two decorative urns resting on the living room mantelpiece. His fists clenched by his sides.

There were countless questions I wanted to ask, but I decided to hold off for now.

"Let's keep going," Nate said.

For the next hour, we worked in silence, moving all of his belongings into the living room.

Nate excused himself, and when he didn't return, I took it upon myself to search for him.

He wasn't upstairs or in the basement, so I returned to the first floor. I ventured into the kitchen, which surprisingly appeared to be the most well-maintained area of the house.

There was a reason for that.

This was the very place where Nate's father had taken his own life. According to the news article, the police had discovered the body in the kitchen. On the counter, the police had also found a bottle of vodka and a few scattered sleeping pills.

Someone had taken the time to tidy up this area in the present. Perhaps Rory?

The back door was open, and I couldn't blame Nate for seeking solace in the fresh air.

Should I respect his privacy and leave him be, or should I join him? Did I have the right to intrude?

After much deliberation, I stepped outside, entering a small, untamed garden that had been left to the whims of nature.

Nate was sitting on the porch steps, his gaze fixed upon a small pile of rocks next to an old apple tree.

I immediately knew what it represented—a small grave.

Silently, I took a seat beside Nate, refraining from speaking. When Nate rested his head on my shoulder, I held my breath.

I tried not to read too much into his actions. After all, he was simply seeking comfort from the person nearest to him.

It could have been Ian or anyone else. But the fact that he trusted me enough to let his guard down meant the world to me.

Nate's gaze remained fixed on the little grave.

"That's Missy's grave," Nate's voice was wonderfully soft yet filled with sorrow. "She was my only friend during the darkest period of my life."

I yearned to do several things. Run my fingers through his hair. Hold his hand and assure him he wasn't alone.

To let him know that I was here for him, ready to be his friend if he wished. And maybe, just maybe, something more.