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Shane accidentally discovers a box of Ilya’s childhood photos, spanning from babyhood to his teenage years. Shane wasn't snooping. Really, he wasn't. He had been looking for tape, that's all. He was pretty sure there was a half-used roll somewhere from the last time they moved furniture, and he opened the wrong closet, nudged aside a pair of old skates, and there it was. A cardboard box, worn soft at the edges, the top folded but not taped shut. He would have closed it again. He really would have. But he saw a corner of glossy paper, the unmistakable edge of a photograph, and his name wasn’t on the box. Ilya’s was, written in thick black marker, the letters sharp and slanted like they’d been written in a hurry. Shane lowered himself to the floor before he quite realized what he was doing. Inside, the photos weren’t organized. They were stacked, loose, some curling with age, a few that obviously went together were joined with paperclips. He lifted the top one carefully, like it might fall apart in his hands. It was Ilya. Not the Ilya Shane knew, the one with the sharp mouth and sharper eyes, all confidence and bite, but still undeniably him. A baby, pale sandy curls already forming against his scalp, soft and fine, sticking up in places not entirely dissimilarly to how they often looked now. He was wrapped in a knitted blanket, staring at the camera with that same serious intensity, like he was already forming opinions. Shane’s chest tightened. He flipped to the next one. A toddler this time, barefoot on what looked like a balcony, sandy curls looser now, falling into his eyes. One small hand was wrapped in a woman’s fingers. His mother. Shane paused longer than he meant to. She was stunning. Not in a polished, distant way, but striking all the same—high cheekbones, expressive eyes, a warmth to her face that pulled attention without trying. She was smiling down at Ilya, soft and open, her hair pulled back messily, like this moment mattered more than how she looked in it. There was nothing brittle or strained about her expression. She looked happy. Genuinely so. That surprised him. Ilya’s mouth was open in laughter, his whole body tilted toward her like gravity worked differently when she was nearby, like the world made sense because she was holding his hand. There were more photos. Ilya at around five years old, missing a front tooth, standing stiffly in a school uniform that was slightly too big. His hair had been cut short in this one, but the curls were still rebelling, softening the seriousness of his posture. Ilya at about eight or nine in hockey gear, curls escaping his helmet at the edges and sticking damply to his forehead, holding his stick and smirking with a playfulness that was very familiar to Shane. Ilya at ten or so, dripping wet at the edge of a pool, sandy-blond curls soaked and curling tighter from the water, plastered to his head, grinning at the camera. A family photo stopped him. His parents stood behind Ilya, his father’s hand heavy on his shoulder. His mother leaned in close. She was beautiful here too, effortlessly so. But more than that, she still didn’t look unhappy. Her smile was smaller, yes, a little tighter, but her eyes were bright. Present. Like she was trying. Like she still believed something could be held together. Ilya’s curls brushed his collar. He way maybe 11 or 12 years old. Beside them stood a boy a few years older - Alexei. Taller, broader, his smile sharp in a way that made Shane’s skin prickle even through the gloss of the photo. Shane flipped again. The shift was jarring. Teenage Ilya now. Taller. His face sharper, cheekbones coming in strong. In one picture his hair was really long, hanging past his shoulders in uneven, punk defiance. Still sandy, still curly, but heavier now, darker at the roots, grown out like a deliberate rebellian. There was eyeliner smudged beneath his eyes, his jaw set like he was daring the camera to comment. This one stopped Shane cold. Because this was the point where Ilya started to look like himself. The same eyes. The same mouth. And that was when Shane noticed it. There was no crucifix. His gaze flicked instinctively to the teenager’s throat. Bare. No chain. No small gold cross resting against his chest the way it always did now. The way it had every single day Shane had known him. A chill crawled up Shane’s spine. It felt like slipping into an alternate universe where things are mostly normal, but just a little bit wrong. He flipped to the next photo. Same era. Same defiant hair. Same guarded stare. Still no crucifix. He went back, scanning earlier photos more carefully now, and landed back on the family photo from before.
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