Over the next several weeks, Jaxon was given a suite at the hotel while legal documents were processed. A social worker assisted with paperwork verifying his identity. Therapists evaluated the years of trauma he had endured. He learned to sleep in a real bed again, though he often woke startled. He learned to eat without rushing, though his hands sometimes trembled around utensils. He learned to trust. Slowly.
Tobias stayed by him. They ate breakfasts together. Explored neighborhoods. Spent hours talking about music, books, and their mother. Jaxon had almost no memories of her, only the faint murmur of her voice and the scent of lavender she used to wear. Tobias filled in the missing pieces. In return, Jaxon described what his life had been like in shelters, abandoned buildings, and cold stairwells. Tobias listened without judgment.
One evening, both boys stood on the rooftop terrace of the hotel where the city glowed beneath them like a sea of molten gold. Jaxon rubbed his arms against the cold breeze. “I used to avoid people like you,” he murmured. “People who had everything.”