She saw his jersey - number 24, it had always been number 24 - and things came back to her in a rush.

Stiles, dancing with her in the school gym.

Stiles, screaming her name as Peter Hale ripped her world apart.

Stiles, with his father, when the police were looking for her when she became a banshee.

Stiles, her lips on his, staring wide-eyed at her face as she stopped him from breathing.

Stiles, there, when Allison died.

She knew she was the one that remembered the most of him, the most about him. Sharp, cold terror filled her like ice water when Scott and Malia wanted to give up, just forget about Stiles, the person they loved the most, just do away with him and all the work that came with it. Because stopping the Ghost Riders was more important.

How could they do that?

She didn't remember much about Scott and Stiles together, but she knew in her core that Stiles meant too much to Scott for him to give up. Because giving up meant conceding, and conceding meant admitting that there was no hope left.

But there was hope left. This, right here, the number 24, was the embodiment of hope. It was the opposite of the icy feeling; it was the blossoming of something warm yet cool in her chest, something that brought tears to her eyes and a tremble to her heart.

Lydia hesitated, afraid to touch the shirt, blink, and find it vanished like things had happened so many other times when she was a banshee.

But the shirt did not disappear, even as she picked it up, held it to her chest, smelled the slight scent that she couldn't name. The warm, sunshine-y, yet reminiscent of crisp autumn mornings and hot cocoa on cold winter nights as well feeling that she could give no name but Stiles.

She almost laughed at herself. What had this boy done to her? She didn't know. She honestly didn't know.

Maybe that was the reason she wanted to find him so badly. So she could find out. Because even if she didn't know anything about Stiles Stilinski, she knew for sure about herself that she hadn't always loved this boy.

And that was the curious part of it all, even stranger than the werewolves and the Wild Hunt and the void-filling dead mothers and children.

Because who was this boy, that had loved Lydia even with all her flaws and insecurities and deep dark scars, and that had slowly come to mean so much to her?

Did she love him back? She was going to find out.

So with a last ditch effort, praying to all the gods she knew of and could think about, and even praying to the beings which had brought her to where she was right now, she tossed Mr. Stilinski the jersey. If he caught it, there was hope. There was hope still for Lydia to understand Stiles Stilinski and see him again (how did he even look like?). And if Sheriff Stilinski stared at her and started to offer taking her to a mental facility, that was that and Stiles Stilinski would never exist again, not without his father there to believe in him. Lydia told herself that no matter what happened, she'd go with her gut and trust herself.

He caught it.