Evening light spills over the rocks and water of Shoal Creek, the view from my apartment soft and golden. The city stirs in the distance, but here the world is quiet — almost suspended. In the window’s reflection, I think I see another version of me: younger, wide-eyed, curious. The scent of rain on pavement lingers, and the past feels as present as the dusk outside.
On the table rests a photograph of me at five years old. I’d brought it to therapy earlier today. “Tell him you love him,” my therapist had said. At first I hesitated — it felt silly. But then, sitting in that quiet room, I looked into that boy’s face and did it. I said it out loud. “I love you.” Again: “I love you.” And again. Each time, something inside shifted. Like dropping stones into still water, the words rippled through time.
Back home, I sit with that memory. I close my eyes, and the room around me begins to dissolve. I’m no longer in my apartment. I’m standing beside Shoal Creek, but as a grown man watching my child-self crouched at the edge of the water. He pokes at tadpoles with a stick, knees scraped, Power Rangers shirt dirty from play. He looks up — startled, uncertain — but not afraid. He knows me somehow.
“Hi, Bryce,” I say gently. I sit beside him. For a moment we just listen to the creek. “I’ve been looking for you,” I say. And it’s true. Through every obsession, every lonely walk, every unsolved mystery — part of me was searching for this boy. For myself.
He watches me closely. I take a breath and place a hand on my heart. He copies the gesture — a mirror image — and it nearly undoes me. “I love you,” I whisper. “I love you so much.” He hesitates. “You… do?” he asks, voice barely audible. I nod. “I promise. I’m here. I won’t leave you again.”
He reaches out, small hand trembling, and I cover it with mine. Then he’s in my arms, clutching me tightly, both of us crying into each other’s shoulders. For the first time, I hold him — hold myself — with the tenderness I always needed.
Eventually, the vision begins to fade. “Will I see you again?” he asks. I squeeze his hand. “I’m always with you,” I tell him. “We’re never really apart.” He believes me. I press my hand to his chest, offering every ounce of love I can. “It’s always been yours,” I say. “Take it with you.”
And then, he’s gone.
I open my eyes. Night has fallen. The creek below glimmers in moonlight. I wipe my face and look at the photo again — no longer a relic, but a companion. I frame it, place it where I’ll see it every day.
Something has changed. The ache that used to live in me — the hunger for approval, the fear of not being enough — has softened. I feel a wholeness now. A fullness.
I pick up my journal. Words come freely. I write about a detective named Vera Quan. About a child lost and found. About love that moves through time and heals what was broken. For the first time in years, I don’t write to prove anything — only to connect. Only to speak.
In the quiet, I whisper thanks — to the universe, to that brave little boy, to myself. And I know that tomorrow, I’ll sit by this window again, and write with a steadier hand. The hollow has been filled with gold. And I am whole.