? ? ?, Present Day III

I sat in silence, staring at the two photographs in my hands. The memories had long since ended, but as the train bustled forward, all I could do was sit and think.

If you know anything about me, you know that's usually a bad idea.

"This isn't real," I said to the empty train car. "There's no way that any—any of that was real."

When I emerged from the memories, I was in the same spot as before. In the seat of a worn but clean train car, whooshing through an unfamiliar city. The buildings had grown denser, and the train was still moving, but I hardly spared more than a second looking out the window.

In the first two memories, I'd scoffed at the idea of Dad raising a vampire. At the idea that a guy like Thomas could've even been raised by him. I had wondered where I was in Dad's memory. I had wondered why I was even seeing memories from this Thomas guy. I never considered the possibility that I'd known him.

I never even considered the possibility that I had a brother.

I thought back to that awful Christmas when I was 6. Don't get me wrong, after Dad died, they were all awful. But that one was the worst. I'd felt lonelier than I ever have, and all I wanted was a set of toy plastic robots. But not for me. For my brother.

My brother, who might actually exist.

But if this was real, and I actually had a brother, then why didn't I look like him? How did Mom even get tangled with vampires? And why…

Why didn't I remember him?

"Wait," I gasped. "If these memories are real, then—"

I stared at the second picture again. It was the view of someone in the driver seat of a car, looking out onto the road. I could see strong, calloused hands holding the steering wheel. In the top corner was the rearview mirror. I only saw a fraction of the man in its reflection, but I recognized him.

It was Dad. It was Dad, in his old hunting jacket, with a clean shaven face that already had pinpricks of stubble growing in.

Dad was part of the memories. But more than that, two of them were from him. And this was six years ago. Not eleven. Not ten. Six. Which meant—That meant—

"Dad," I whispered. "Were… Were you alive?"

All this time, I'd known that my Dad died sometime after my sixth birthday. Ever since, I had spent every Christmas mourning him. But if this was real, then that means I must've had more Christmases with him. More birthdays with him. More days with him.

"With him… and Thomas," I said to the empty car.

I didn't have the full picture, but from what I'd seen in those memories, my mother took Thomas away from his father. And since she died in the delivery room, and Thomas didn't go back to his family until he was 18, he must've lived with Dad. With Dad and me.

"No," I said. "No, no way. I can't—I can't have forgotten that. I mean, I still remember Dad. And if I remember him, then wouldn't I also remember my—"

The word died on my tongue.

No. I couldn't say it. Not now. Not when I still had questions.

The train stalled to a halt. The doors opened.

"Okay," I said to myself. "Just step out of the sentient train that's smack-dab in the middle of my subconscious, out to who-knows-where. This definitely isn't the plot to a horror movie. Definitely not!"

I shoved the pictures into my back pocket and stepped off of the train. The station here was bigger, with more platforms and rail lines. There were no other trains, so I took a look around the station, hoping to find a big red arrow saying 'THIS WAY' to guide me out of here.

Was I optimistic? Yep. But I had good reason to be, because I found the sign less than a minute later.

In front of me was a map. The big, colorful kind they make for tourists. And I guess it was nice of my brain to give me a map, because as I read the name of the city, stylized in big bold letters, I threw my hands up and yelled:

"Why the hell am I in Chicago?!"

I remembered something Elaine once told me. She said that, whenever I was stressed or frustrated, I should go take a walk. It would help clear my head, and come back to whatever I was trying to figure out with fresh eyes. It always sounded like a sensible idea, even when all I wanted to do was lay in bed and nurse the bruises I'd gotten from DuMorne's 'lessons'.

Then again, I'd never tried to clear my head while literally walking inside it.

I was in what's gotta be the city center, with wide streets and buildings so tall I got vertigo from just looking up at them. It was a mix of white, cream, and beige tiles and façades all around me, with a variety of styles that cycled through different American decades of architecture. I saw a lot of chain stores, like the ones they showed on the cheesy Hallmark movies on tv. But the main difference between those cities and this one was the elevated rail line I'd just stepped off, standing out with its shining cars and steel support beams.

It was empty, of course. I hadn't expected people to suddenly show up. But it made everything more eerie. There's a difference between here and the residential streets I'd been wandering before. In a house with streets, you can assume that people are inside them. Or maybe they're at school, work, and all that. But here, you expect people to be walking down the sidewalks. You expect people to be honking at each other in cars. You don't expect a ghost town in broad daylight.

And still, I kept walking. Past the stores, the offices. All the way to a large park. It was big, with wide stone pathways cutting between stretches of fading grass. The trees were tall, filled with mutli-colored leaves that fluttered to the ground. It's pretty peaceful. If you ignore the lack of people, animals, and anything with a pulse.

There's no reason I should know my way around here. DuMorne was really strict, to the point where we always had to get permission to leave the house. Back then, he cited it as safety reasons, since we were inexperienced with magic and couldn't risk mortals learning we were wizards. Now I know he was a controlling asshole, but it still doesn't change the fact that we never really went anywhere. And despite being a professional entertainer, my dad never liked cities. He always liked sticking to smaller towns, and the biggest city he ever took me to was Cleveland. Cleveland!

And, somehow, I was here.

I strode confidently down the park's pathways. The sun was blocked by the trees that cast long shadows, which made me look up at the sky.

Yeah, the sun was definitely getting lower. Before, I'd spent my in-brain days under a bright sun. But though the sky was still blue, the shadows were getting longer, and the air was getting colder. It was enough for me to notice, but not enough to stop the thoughts racing into my head.

In both memories, Thomas mentioned a kid named Harry. A kid who may or may not be me. Somehow, between all the turmoil about this vampire 'Turn', he thought about Harry.

I thought about it, block after block. And I tried to rationalize it block after block. When Thomas thought about his brother, he said he was annoying. Maybe that meant he didn't care about him. When Thomas said he didn't want to hurt him, maybe it's because he just didn't want to hurt anyone. And when Dad said that… When Dad said that Harry loved Thomas, he could've been exaggerating. I could be right about any of this.

So why was my gut telling me that I was wrong? That what I saw was real.

If Thomas really was the son of Margaret LeFay, then he was my half-brother. No question about it. I remember enough from Dad's stories to never forget her name. That left the chance that I might actually have a living family member.

God, what if… what if this was real? What if Dad actually did raise me alongside Thomas? What if Thomas really was my brother? What if he did care about me?

If he didn't, I could just brush it away. Chalk it up to one of DuMorne's tricks and keep looking through memories. But if it was, and DuMorne had made me forget, then it means that there's all this time I've lost. Days watching Star Wars movies with my Dad. Driving around the country in the old station wagon. Talking to my brother and acting like, I don't know—how a little brother's supposed to act, I guess. I might have a family.

And that scared the shit out of me.

"I finally understand you, sir," I said to the air. "What was it you said? 'The mind will pick the pain it knows over the pain it doesn't', or something like that? I kind of thought you were pulling my leg with that one."

Ebenezar didn't say anything. Look, I know he said he couldn't talk to me until I saw all the memories, but maybe I was hoping for a little reaction. Like a rustle of wind. Or a giant ray of light guiding me to wherever the hell I'm supposed to go next. That'd be nice.

By this point in time, I had zero clue where the pictures had gone. I'd let my feet walk of their own accord, down the wide pathways between sections of autumnal grass, until I found myself at an enormous courtyard.

The courtyard was pristine. There were piles of leaves here and there, but it had clearly been looked after. So, considering we're in a city, this is probably a historic spot. Or at least a touristy one. No way would they be so diligent in keeping it this well-maintained otherwise. There also wasn't much in it, aside from several tables and benches a few steps away from the trees. The most clutter came from the falling leaves, which coated the ground in an array of oranges, reds, and browns.

Oh, and there was a massive shining sculpture of a bean. I guess I should mention that.

I don't know much about Chicago (consciously, at least), but I do know about the Bean. And it helped that it was one of the landmarks marked on the map I'd seen earlier. Amid the giant metropolis, the sculpture stood out like a gigantic reflective blob. Okay, it is a giant reflective blob, but it definitely was a choice to put it here. The courtyard was surrounded by the park on three sides, but the fourth led out to the street.

So as I looked up at the sculpture, taking in the warped vision of the trees behind me, I could also take in the towering buildings behind it. Some were modern, with gleaming façades and floor-to-ceiling windows. Others were old, with designs that looked straight out of an early twentieth-century photograph. That didn't stop the Bean from being the main focus of the whole space. And as someone who'd spent half of his walk just staring at the towering buildings around me, I think that's pretty impressive.

Yeah, I could tell why it was called the Bean. I mean, if you're gonna make a sculpture called Cloud Gate, at least make it look like a cloud. Or a gate. This was literally just a giant, shining bean. If I were in Chicago when it was revealed, I probably would've been on the frontlines chanting, "Rename the Bean!" Probably wouldn't have done anything, but you gotta admit that it would have been funny.

"So what are you?" I asked the Bean. "My fifth birthday? My twelfth? Or are you the memory of when DuMorne launched me across a field because I mistimed a shield spell? I mean, I had a cast for a pretty long while. That should count as a significant memory, right?"

The Bean said nothing.

"Okay, fine. Keep your secrets. I'll just find some other memory! Because you." I pointed a finger at the sculpture. "Are no help at all!"

My indignant reflection stared back at me.

The Bean still said nothing. Because, yeah, I was talking to a fucking bean.

I sighed. But just as I turned to walk away, a gust of wind shot by, and it pressed a photograph onto the side of the Bean.

The picture was of a kid. He was skinny, around 9 or 10 years old, with short brown hair and a strong chin that stood out on his young face. He was swinging a gray backpack that was fraying at the edges, unaware or unbothered by his untied shoelaces. He was missing a tooth, his shirt was a tad too big on him, and he was running. He was running with a grin so wide that I started smiling.

Bouncing against his chest was a necklace. A silver necklace with a five-point pentacle in the center. And even though his eyes were the same shade of brown as his hair, I know who he is.

That kid… He's me.

I only had enough time to glance at my reflection— and yep, I still have green eyes—before the memory took me. There was now a light pounding in my head, like the remnant of a headache. My voice felt hoarse.

And on my neck, near the collar of my shirt, I felt the lingering pain of a small, thumb-shaped burn.

I have a slight confession. I… have never been to Chicago.

Don't get me wrong, I reeeally wanna go, but I haven't yet. As such, all details of this city come courtesy of the internet (thank you, Google Street View!).

So, if any Chicago natives are reading this, my humblest apologies. Hopefully I haven't gotten too many things wrong (even though I'm sure I've messed up/will mess up somewhere).

Either way, hope you're all having a great day!