The mirror had always been there, in the hallway between the bathroom and the laundry closet. Long and narrow, mounted to the wall. Sarah used it. James passed it without thought.
Albert had avoided it.
For months, he’d learned to shift his gaze, to duck slightly, to walk with his eyes down whenever he passed. He’d seen glimpses before, scars, sharp collarbones, the curve of muscle that didn’t belong to the boy he remembered being.
But now…
Now he stood in front of it.
On purpose.
It was morning. Sunlight spilled across the tile. He had just come from the shower. A towel hung loosely around his waist. His chest was bare, thin, strong, uneven. White scars curled over his ribs like old stories. A burn mark just below his shoulder. Scrapes that had long since become part of him.
He didn’t look away.
Not this time.
He studied himself like a stranger he might want to know.
Then raised a hand, pressed it lightly to his shoulder.
And said, low, steady:
“Albert.”
The word echoed in the quiet.
He said it again.
“Albert.”
Then one more time soft, but certain:
“I’m Albert.”
And in the reflection,
for the first time,
he believed it.