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"Let's look together," I whisper, walking us back to the bed.

We sit cross-legged opposite each other on the mattress, so close our knees touch.

I open the folder and lay the first document on the bed between us.

It’s an official, news clipping from ten years ago, dated right around the time of the ten-year anniversary of the Halloween Wave anomaly. Below the headline are several crisp photographs.

Ryker leans down, his gaze locking onto the top page. His breath hitches in his chest.

"What’s this?" he asks quietly, his voice barely a whisper.

"That," I say, pointing to the photograph, "is a tailor shop called Gray & Co, located in the historic garment district of New York City. Ten years ago, during the Wave’s anniversary, it’s been noted that several more people transformed. The two lead tailors who ran that shop transformed simultaneously."

Ryker’s claws twitch against the sheets. His eyes devour every word printed on the PI's summary sheet.

In the photograph on the page, two young men are standing in front of a stunning, brick-front shop filled with rolls of silk, wools, and vintage sewing machines. One of the men in the photo has shoulder-length dark hair, striking eyes, and a broad frame.

Even in print, the resemblance is unmistakable.

"Holy shit. That's..." Ryker’s voice cracks. He stares at the photo, his jaw working as if he’s trying to form words that won't come out. "That's..."

"That's you, Ryker," I say tenderly, feeling tears spring to my own eyes at the sheer emotion radiating off him. "Ten years ago, you weren't a stone statue that came to life. You were a human. A tailor. You and your younger brother ran a shop together. And get this, your name really is Ryker. Somehow you knew."

Ryker’s hands begin to shake violently. He reaches out, his clawed fingers lightly touching the printed image of his own face from a decade ago, as if he’s afraid the paper will turn to ash if he presses too hard.

"I... I had a brother?" he breathes out, the words choked with sudden, staggering grief and wonder. "I wasn't alone?"

"You weren't alone," I whisper, flipping to the next set of photographs from the detective's package.

These pictures were taken by the investigator just four days ago.

"During the anniversary, when the transformations hit, there was panic," I explain, reading through the timeline detailed by the detective. "You got separated from your family in the chaos in New York, ended up miles away in Pennsylvania. They suspect the physical trauma of the transformation wiped your memory clean. You woke up on that bench in Philadelphia, believing you were just a lost monster with no past."

I tap the newest photograph lying between us.

It shows the exterior of a charming, restored red-brick shop. Hanging above the wooden doorway is a beautifully carved sign that reads: Gray & Co. And standing in the open doorway of the shop, holding a cloth measuring tape over his broad shoulder, is another gargoyle.

He has the exact same shade of vibrant purple skin as Ryker. The exact same shape to his leathery wings. The exact same bright cerulean eyes. He looks slightly younger, with shorter hair, but the family resemblance is so striking it takes my breath away.

"He never stopped looking for you, Ryker," I say softly, tears spilling down my cheeks as I watch Ryker’s face. "Your brother survived the Wave. He kept the business going. He moved upstate, rebuilt the atelier, and he’s been running it ever since, hoping every single day that his older brother would walk through the front door."

Ryker stares at the photograph of his brother.

For a long time, Ryker just stares at the image of the purple gargoyle tailor holding a measuring tape, his wide blue eyes taking in every single detail. He studies the posture, the face, the shared purple skin that had made Ryker feel like an anomaly for an entire decade.

Then, a deep, ragged sob tears out of Ryker’s chest.

He drops his head and buries his face in his massive, clawed hands. His giant shoulders heave as ten years of isolation, confusion, fear, and lingering loneliness break apart all at once inside him.

He has a name.

A history.

A family.

"Hey... hey, come here," I cry softly, moving forward immediately.

I pull myself onto his lap, straddling his thighs, and wrap my arms as tightly as I can around his massive neck. I pull his head down against my chest, burying my fingers in his soft hair.