The name tag sat where he had left it the night before—folded neatly beside the lantern, threads fraying at the edge.
The boy hadn't touched it since.
He had seen it, read it, even held it. But he hadn't spoken it. Not yet.
He wasn't afraid it was wrong.
He was afraid it was right.
It rained that morning—one of those slow, persistent drizzles that soaks into your sleeves and settles into your bones. The air smelled of damp earth and woodsmoke. The windows fogged slightly from the warmth inside.
He sat at the kitchen table, the name tag resting between his hands.
Calix poured tea into two mismatched mugs, quiet as he moved.
"I've been thinking," Calix said finally, sitting down, "about what you said last night. About how it didn't feel familiar."
The boy nodded.
Calix continued, "Maybe it's not about familiarity. Maybe it's about recognition. Sometimes something can be yours even if it feels new."
The boy looked at him. "But what if I get it wrong?"
"Then you grow into it," Calix said simply. "But I don't think you will."
The boy lowered his eyes to the tag.
C A L E N
Five letters.
They didn't spark anything. No sudden memory. No rush of clarity.
But when he traced the thread with his finger, his chest felt less… hollow.
Like something that had been echoing inside him had finally found a wall to bounce back from.
He spent the afternoon alone, wandering the empty garden behind the house.
The trees were bare now, save for a few stubborn leaves that refused to let go. Rainwater pooled in the stone cracks along the path. The lantern hung from the low branch of the old sycamore, its flame dim but present.
He carried the tag in his coat pocket.
Every now and then, he reached in and held it.
At one point, he stood still and said the name aloud.
Softly.
"Calen."
The wind moved through the branches above.
The flame inside the lantern stirred.
And something in his chest unclenched.
That evening, he sat at the desk in his room with the tag in front of him.
There was no ceremony.
No lightning. No glowing symbols. No ancient forces rising to greet him.
Just the steady ticking of the clock on the wall, the soft creak of the floorboards beneath his feet, and the whisper of rain against the window.
He lit the lantern and waited.
After a moment, he picked up a pen and a piece of paper.
And for the first time in longer than he could remember—perhaps the first time ever—he wrote his name.
Calen.
He stared at the word.
Then wrote it again.
And again.
Each time it grew more natural. More his.
He left the paper by the altar before going to sleep.
And when he passed the lantern on his way to bed, the flame inside it flared—just slightly.
Acknowledging him.
Welcoming him back.
That night, Calen slept deeply.
And when he dreamed, it wasn't of a name forgotten or a past stolen. It was of a garden with a swing, and his grandmother reading aloud beneath the sycamore tree.
In the dream, she said nothing.
She only smiled.
And that was enough.
The next morning, Calix greeted him with a smirk and a paper bag of warm bread.
"Morning, Calen," he said without teasing.
Calen paused.
Then smiled.
"Morning."