Startled, Ryley turned.
A boy stood before him, no older than six or seven, his light brown hair catching the golden sun.
His hazel eyes sparkled with something deeper than innocence.
Ryley's heart stopped. The resemblance to Ryder was unmistakable.
"Let him rest," the boy said softly, a smile spreading across his lips. "I'll go with you instead."
Before Ryley could react, the child laughed and pulled him forward, tugging him into the light.
"Wait—wait!" Ryley resisted, digging his heels in. "Who are you?!"
Before there could even be an answer, Ryley jolted upright with a choked gasp, his body drenched in sweat, heart slamming against his ribs.
"Ryder!" he shouted.
His vision was hazy—his breath ragged. He blinked, frantic, searching for something—someone—to anchor him.
Instead, his eyes met Madam Beckett's, her usually steely expression softened by concern.
