red crosses on wooden doors;

[repressings]

WHO: Credence Barebone
WHERE: the inn
WHEN: December 14
OPEN TO: Anyone and everyone
WARNINGS: Standard warning for Credence's canon
STATUS: Open

---

When Credence wakes, it's his usual routine. He's up before dawn because that's just what he always does, ever since he was little and Mary Lou Barebone needed help around the church. Even if he doesn't want to give up the warmth of his many blankets piled up, he forces himself to, because laziness has never been tolerated. He has chores to do here, even if it's not a church.

If he keeps busy, he doesn't have to think. He's met a few people with his same mentality, most of them staying in the inn for that exact reason, and Credence likes to pretend that they're all a strange adoptive family. He'll think about it when he's alone, closing his eyes and wondering what their name would be if it had to be some sort of virtue, some puritan or Salem-esque name. It's a nice way to pass the time when there's nothing else to do.

He's up and dressed and it's when he opens the door and looks down that he notices it: a cardboard box, right there with the word 'Credence' right on the label.

A present. Another present, and he can only assume it's something wonderful and whimsical like the last time he'd gotten presents. It's from the observers--Cougar got candy, he remembers, and a few others got other, pleasant things. Since he's opened all of his other presents from last month, ones given from him by the villagers and not the observers, he decides to make this last as long as possible. He picks the small box up and hugs it protectively, making a promise to himself to only open it when he's done at the end of the day.

Regulars are free to notice he keeps it above the fireplace for the remainder of his work periods, staring at it longingly but refusing to actually move it from the mantle. Not yet. Anyone who asks will get the same answer--a bashful shrug and that he's waiting for the right moment to see what it is.

When he puts the broom down for the last time this evening is when he finally reaches out to the little parcel. Just a small cardboard box with his name on it, right by the fire, and there's a flicker of what could be construed as a smile as he allows himself to open it. He's waited all day--he guesses at what it is he takes his time, biting the inside of his cheek in anticipation. It's light, so it's not candy, and it rattles, so it's not gloves or any clothing.

When he opens it, he finds something else entirely. Credence finds a a necklace. Silver with black chord, a simple thing, a simple symbol: a triangle, a stick, a circle.

Credence's face is already pale, but what little colour that's left drains completely as he drops the box and the pendant itself like it's on fire. In the middle of the inn, right near the fire, he cries out, startled, and backs up a few steps back in surprise, knocking into a chair--or was it someone?--before falling backwards completely, hitting the floor with a solid thunk. He sits up, eyes darting around the room, looking for someone or something that isn't there, panicked. He's made quite the scene, the clatter to the floor and the startled cry loud is still bouncing off the small room's walls.

"Why?"

Comments

[ex_assertiveness90]

Stella doesn't spend much time round the inn anymore, not now she's claimed one of the houses for herself and, recently, got a roommate in the form of Peggy Carter. But, occasionally, she finds good reason to spend a bit of time in the common room — her house has a furnace, like all the others, but no fireplace, and she's taken to a cup of herbal tea here once in a while.

It's for that reason she's here this evening, after a discovery this morning that, to say the least, had deeply disturbed her. She'd heard of the gift boxes showing up on people's doorsteps but had never got one of her own until now: a neatly packaged box with her own name on the label, sitting on her front porch. There'd been clothing inside, a blouse and trousers not too far off what she would have worn at home, though in cotton and twill, not silk and wool-blend; and a pair of dress flats, not the high heels she'd have liked, but any option besides the clumsy walking boots was a decent one. And then, tucked into the corner of the box, almost as if an afterthought, she'd found the bottle of red nail varnish.

It could just be a coincidence, Stella thinks. Red is a common enough color, after all. But, coincidence or not, it's still the color she'd found freshly painted on the nails of a dead woman; a color she herself had worn in public, at a press conference broadcast on television, to try to draw out that woman's killer. Stella had thought she'd started to put Paul Spector to the back of her mind, that she had finally settled with the fact that she had no choice but to move on, and now — she'd been so rattled it had taken all of her self-control not to throw the bottle in the rubbish. She'd put it in a drawer in her vanity instead, tucked away where she didn't have to look at it.

The tea is certainly not a cure for the fact that she's feeling more completely thrown off than she has her entire time here, but she thinks it might at least help a little. She is just coming from the kitchen when she hears the shout and then a thump as if someone's fallen, and rounds the corner into the common room in time to see the young man sitting up from where he'd landed on the floor, staring at something she can't quite see clearly as if it's personally wronged him.

Credence, she thinks his name is. They've not really spoken much, but she can see he's clearly distressed. Stella puts her cup down, going over toward him, not quite reaching down to help him up — he doesn't seem injured, just rattled. Not unlike how she'd been this morning.

"Are you all right?" she asks, and though her voice is even and steady there's an undercurrent of concern.

[repressings]

Stella's instinct is right--Credence is a skittish person by nature, and as all of his joints are seized up in fear, had someone touched him he would have reacted badly. Not that this is favourable--it's not, because Credence feels like his heart might burst, staring at the piece of jewelry like he's seen a ghost. In a way, he has.

The man who was and wasn't his last shred of hope had given him the necklace. The man who had tricked him, lied to him, caused him to give in. The man who had touched the side of his face and promised he'd be there for him, all low voice and silver tongue.

The one that had slapped him and left him, alone and scared, with a dead family and a sudden understanding of what it's like to hate.

The kind blonde that sometimes orders tea is here, Credence realizes. Her name escapes him because he's trying to pick himself up but can't quite get his body to move. She's always had an air of aristocracy around her, something that reminds him of power, something he secretly envies and wishes he carried, too. She's asking him something, and he forces himself to concentrate on that.

"That's not supposed to be here," He says, and lifts his scarred hand to point to what he'd dropped. The gift box is right next to it, and Credence inhales shakily, barely suppressing a sob. He's concentrating at how even and steady her voice is, finding it comforting.

"Why would anyone give me this? I haven't told anyone, I've never told anyone--" He looks at the other, and even though he's sure it just comes across as him spouting nonsense, he's too spooked to fully explain.

"--you have to believe me."

[ex_assertiveness90]

Stella has dealt with countless trauma victims before, ranging from the merely skittish or nervous to the ones who are too terrified, ashamed or in shock to speak. She doesn't know what has Credence so spooked, but whatever it is, it's deeply affected him; and if there's anything she knows very well how to cope with, it's this.

There is a certain demeanor Stella has cultivated, calm and centered, grounded, and she's found that most people respond well to it. She glances over when he points out the necklace, and while she can see the shape of it she doesn't know what it means, though it obviously means something to Credence.

He's babbling a little, but— "You don't have to tell me anything," she says. It's true. This isn't an interview and it's certainly not an interrogation. Still, she notes that he seems afraid of what would happen if he told anyone about the necklace, whatever it is or whatever it means. Stella files that away for later.

"Here, come on," she says, and this time she does hold out her hand in an offer to help him up, patiently, without pushing. He doesn't have to take it, but surely he'd prefer not sitting on the floor. "Credence, isn't it?"

[repressings]

He's safe. He's safe, here, from wizards and witches, and humans who know he's a danger--he's safe, and Stella's smooth accent and gentle tone, her grounding gaze. He's reminded of Tina--he thinks it's Tina--the wizard that saved him from his mother. The one that started everything.

Credence likes Tina. Credence trusts Tina--as much as he can--and he knows he has to calm down. That he's overreacting. His pulse is still racing and he grabs the other's hand without thinking about it. His palms are as pale as the rest of him, though there are heavy scars, some as new as a month and some faded from a time long ago. Exposing his hands are the least of his worries--he concentrates on the task he's been given.

If he splinters it into small things--small tasks--it'll steady him, just like the blonde's voice.

"Credence," he echoes, and nods softly. His gaze drops as he manages to pull himself up, immediately letting go of her hand like he'd been burned, and his shoulders hunch over.

"I'm sorry," He says immediately, shame creeping into his voice. "I didn't mean to cause a scene, ma'am, I--I just wasn't... I panicked."

[ex_assertiveness90]

Once he's straightened up, Stella draws her hand back, folding both her hands together in front of her and making no further effort to touch him — not with the way he'd pulled back immediately as if it physically pained him to touch her. That, too, is an all too familiar reaction.

Stella shakes her head slightly as he apologizes. "You don't need to be sorry." If she were interviewing him — if he were a crime victim or a witness — this would be the point at which she'd have someone fetch him a glass of water. As it is, she has something on hand right here that might be better. Stella picks up her cup of tea; it's still hot, and she hasn't drunk from it. There's a shortage of real tea here, so it's just something she brewed from a collection of different things that she'd found go well together, sweetened with a tiny bit of honey.

"Here," she says, holding it out to him. And, heading off what she suspects might be his first objection: "It's all right. I can make another."

At this point she thinks he needs it more than she does.

[3ofswords]

With anyone else, it would be a liesurely entrance, his body tilted through the doorway to save them the face of falling over and broadcast general disinterest. A grudging concern. With anyone else, setting aside their box, Kira would have teased and slipped his fingers under the lid, threatening to open it before the appointed time.

With Credence, he'd only told him not to worry about the kitchen cleanup tonight, and he's still raking ash into pillowcases for the fucking chickens when he hears the cry of a familiar voice. Kira drops the bag, ash on the floor before the stove, and rushes into the room.

"You're alright," he says, soot stained hands under Credence's arms to help him back up, not enough pain flowing through the contact to signal an injury.

The distress is acute, making Kira's joints want to lock up as he tries, fails, tries a little harder--to lift Credence up from the toppled chair and get him on his feet. Even mental anguish lessened a bit if you could just get upright, he's found. Sitting and laying in it just lets you wallow.

He's a fan of wallowing; he isn't a fan of feeling other people do it. "Did something jump out at you," he asks, smearing more soot on Credence's coat in the attmept to brush it out.

[repressings]

Someone snaps him out of it with a touch, and Credence's movements are instinctive--he jerks and writhes away from it at first, a split second of his brain telling him run because he doesn't know who it is or what he's done--but he's hoisted up anyway. He feels a strange sense of everything at once and nothing at all, a chill numbness caused only because most of his senses are completely overloaded.

He remembers grasping that necklace, desperate, murmuring the words help me over and over until the man who was and wasn't Mr. Graves came to his rescue, pulling him up and forcing him to concentrate. He remembers the other putting it on him with a promise to always be there.

Credence whimpers, leaning not into the touch like he would usually but away. He doesn't acknowledge Kira--not now, not even as a thank you for helping him up--he instead shrugs him off, taking a few staggering steps away from him and back to the small pendant.

His eyes locked onto it, he picks up the gift not from the symbol but from the simple black chord, dangling it precariously between two fingers. He's shaking, not from cold but from fear, and when he finally addresses the other it's through a strained, watery sounding whisper as he looks over at him, straight into his eyes.

"They know."

[3ofswords]

As Credence shakes him off and just shakes, Kira wonders if this is it--if this is where the shadow will manifest, or grow. Will the lights flicker and die, will the windows rattle or break. There was nothing at all for him to do about it but hope, when Credence lost control, or gave it up to the spirit, it would remember and reward Kira's kindness with some kind of mercy.

He won't have to find out tonight, if he can navigate the storm. Kira lets him go, almost a push of his hand running down from the shoulder to give Credence his own space. Firm, but never harsh.

The fear Credence carries in his bones is at a crescendo, but it doesn't give Kira any insight into what the gift means. The symbol is familiar, but when Kira searches for the knowledge--witches, death, a series of books--it disappears, like he's opening folders but deleting the actual files. Like he's catching a glimpse of a thing before a force turns his head. This, more than any other aspect of the village, crawls under his skin. He can't let Credence see him slip, though, so he falls back, posture loose and easy, letting Credence see that for all he isn't afraid, he is the smaller of them, the weaker, and meaning him no harm. "What do they know? What is that?"

[repressings]

Credence needs a certain firmness, but never harsh--Kira balances it perfectly, probably because Kira knows, and part of Credence has subconsciously always known that Kira's tuned in. How else would someone stay with him for so long? How else would someone know the right moment to let go?

But his mind isn't thinking about if Kira knows about what he is, though--instead, it's thinking about the man who is and isn't Mr. Graves, and that necklace being a stark reminder of how he'd been tricked. How he'd been used, and manipulated, and lied to.

"They know about what happened--they know about the necklace, they know about New York. They know what I did."

[3ofswords]

Credence is usually rather put together, for all that he slips his hunched form through the inn like a weeping willow, acquiescing and swaying to the rhythms of other people. He can ask some sudden or inane questions, but always gently, more curious than frantic.

It doesn't matter what he's done, not until he's calmed down enough to speak of it. "They aren't here right now," Kira says, whether or not the powers of the village are listening. "It's just you and me. We can find somewhere to talk about it, or we can chuck it in the river like it never appeared. You don't have to keep it or explain it if you don't want to, I won't think any less of you for it, and I wouldn't tell anyone."

[womanofvalue]

The last time they'd met, he had been so sweet and full of joy and wonder. She knows as well as anyone that you shouldn't be expected to be perfectly on all the time, but she also doesn't like to see him looking so distraught. Setting down the book she had been reading from across the room (mostly waiting to see if she could fetch some food and bring it to Daniel), she crosses the room briskly to stand behind him with a hand offered out to him.

"Up you come," she coaxes, with a gentle yet firm request. She has no idea what's happened to distress him so, but wants to give him the benefit of the doubt as to why it's happened. He seems to have something with him, but she averts her gaze in the event that he doesn't care to share it with her. "Come along," she says, a hand out to him, "would you like to go find some food?"

[repressings]

Peggy has been kind to him, beautiful and polite and everything Credence really admires. She has a tamed ferocity about her, someone who stands up for what she believes in, and sometimes Credence likes to think about her and the other strong women in the village and imagine them going on all sorts of different adventures.

Now, though, that quiet strength and calmness is something Credence desperately latches onto. He finds himself not wanting to disappoint her, he finds himself trying his hardest to snap out of it even when he can't.

He's still shaking when he takes the offered hand--pale, scarred palms grab onto Peggy's, trying to breath, trying to calm down, trying to do something that isn't staying on the floor. That isn't staring at the necklace.

"I'm sorry," he blurts, and it's the most repentant he's sounded--which is saying something. He's scrambling onto his feet, grabbing the necklace at the last minute, and nods.

If he can get out of here--if he can maybe be alone, or with only Peggy--he can think. he can calm down. He doesn't take her hand, either, but he does nod. It's a little quickly, a little swiftly, and he's holding onto the pendant like his life depends on it.

[womanofvalue]

"Don't be sorry," she advises, trying not to sound like she's chastising him for it. Whatever has happened is clearly not his fault, so he shouldn't have to end up apologising for it, but at the same time, if he does feel guilty, who is she to say otherwise? She lets her gaze drift to what's in his hand so tightly and her curiosity prods and pokes at her, trying to drive her to find out what it is.

She can hardly come right out bluntly and demand to know. This situation will take a bit more finesse and, really, she wants to make sure that she's doing it for Credence's own good, finding out information in the process. "Will you tell me what that is?" she asks, her gaze sliding to the object he's holding.

[repressings]

He is sorry. Very much so--for more than he can articulate. He's sorry for everything he's done, knowing and unknowing--the necklace is a harsh reminder of how naive he'd been, of how trusting the moment someone whispered promising words and touched his cheek.

He wonders if he can trust Peggy Carter, with her careful words and warm smile. Credence swallows, his mouth feeling dry and thick, and it's only when they reach the kitchen that he realizes he should say something. Peggy asked a question.

Credence sniffs loudly, trying to calm himself down, and his hand is white-knuckled around it.

"Someone gave it to me," he says. "Someone who--" He can't finish the sentence, not yet. "I'm sorry," he says for the third or fourth or seventh time. "Someone who lied to me. If they--if they know about this, they know about everything that happened. Everything."

[womanofvalue]

She feels a touch awkward. If she were Angie or even Howard, she might have felt far more willing and ready to comfort Credence with hugs and affection, but Peggy herself is slightly strained and awkward in that department, choosing instead to keep herself close to him and offer firm, concentrated strength in the form of a squeeze to his shoulder, a hand on his forearm, and an unflinching gaze.

"Is that person here?" she asks, thinking that's the most pertinent question at the forefront of her mind.

This won't backfire at all, precious!

[candor1]

Cassian was just coming in with more debris wood he'd collected from the forest for the inn. (Not that anyone had asked him to, and they may already have it in hand, but it was a way to keep trying to integrate himself, and he wanted to do something for Kate in thanks for feeding him.) Seeing the boy he didn't know so enrapt with his parcel, Cassian kept his steps quiet and makes a beeline for the kitchen that would pass without disturbing him.

The boy's reaction to the box's contents makes Cassian pause—right where a moment later Credence backs right into him. Cassian manages to drop all the branches in time not to impale Credence through the back. He's almost quick enough to catch him—but not quite, not well enough to counterbalance or support before the boy staggers to the floor.

Reflexively, Cassian kneels beside him, automatically scooping up the boy's dropped box and pendant in one hand, and putting the other on Credence's shoulder.

[repressings]

It's not a chair--it's a person, a person, but he skitters to his feet because even if that registered quick enough the fact of the matter is he's hardly paying attention to anything but the necklace. The symbol, the thing that had once stood for hope and the promise of a world he belonged, now a cruel reminder of everything that had been violently yanked out from under him.

A stark, blinding statement to what he'd done immediately after. How may people he'd killed then. How many people he had killed before.

Credence is touched and it feels white hot on his skin. Even though the stranger has kneeled first he jerks away, alarmed, letting out a cry of panic because all he can think of is the man that had touched him when he had been starving for affection, so very good at getting what he wants.

Credence moves back, closer to the fire, and it's then that he makes the connection of who it is: it isn't the one who is and isn't Mr. Graves, no, it's the newer arrival, the one that had spent a small portion of their first night banging and screaming and causing Credence to seek out Kira for company because it reminded him of bad nights he tries desperately to forget here. Mary Lou had never thrown furniture, nor had she really yelled, but it caused him to shrink away just the same. And yet--

"Don't touch me!" He's panicking and trying desperately to pick up some of the pieces. Trying to assemble them back into the smallest walls he'd been building.

"Please, don't--I'm--I'm fine, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you, but--but please..."

[candor1]

Cassian instantly—but not abruptly; he keeps all his movements smooth and slow—gets to his feet and backs away. Giving the younger man space. The offending hand is now held empty and outward in front of him, indicating apology and agreement. Won't touch. Sorry. It's all right. I'll stay over here.

"You're all right," Cassian said. "I'm sorry for sneaking up on you. Can you tell me what happened? I might be able to help?" The boy had bolted like an animal in a trap. And since they all were in a trap… if it was anything to do with that, he would indeed like to have a whack at helping. For all of them.

And because they were all, by choice or not, now a team. And if he could lessen the suffering of any member of his team, most certainly including a young man who'd quite obviously been maltreated, he would kriffing well do so.

…Cassian's other hand, of course, still loosely held the retrieved pendant.

[repressings]

Good. Good--the immediate threat is gone, and Credence forces himself to try to relax. another outburst to him equals something unpleasant. Tantrums, outbursts--anything above a polite speaking voice, anything above being seen and not heard, that deserves the belt.

It's been drilled into him, it's been hammered into his senses that if he doesn't calm down right now it will be worse, and Cassian removing his hand and stepping back a few seconds allows him to spend a few moments breathing heavily, trying to gain some sense back. It occurs to him that he should apologize--Cassian didn't sneak up on him at all, the man with the temper at night had been doing nothing wrong and that Credence was the one at fault. He says nothing about it, because his gaze focuses on a glint of silver, and he sees it again.

He was right. It is the smybol, if not the exact necklace. Credence lets out a shakey breath, slowly moving to his feet, and his eyes doesn't lift from the pendant.

"I wasn't expecting this gift to be--" how to put it simply? "--this. I shouldn't have panicked, I--I'll do better next time," He says, and his words sound more distracted than sincere. He's parroting the manners he's always learned, nothing more, because his mind is spinning--reeling--with so many thoughts it makes him dizzy.

[candor1]

"Hey," Cassian interjected gently, trying draw Credence's attention out and away from the obvious inner self-flagellation. Taking a risk, he closed his fingers around the pendant to block it from view. "Hey, listen to me."

And though he really shouldn't know anything about anything to make such assertion, having never seen the young man before, he has seen this kind of behavior—

—the shaking of an animal who's been terrorized (but who forgets they themselves have powerful legs and claws)

—the preemptive bracing of the shoulders and back

—the expression on Credence's face that has become so prematurely set its lines might as well be scars

—the eyes haunted by the worst kind of cruelty: that which convinces it's fully deserved

—enough to say, with compelling quietness:

"You haven't done anything wrong."

[chosenbytheocean]

Moana was staying at the inn and spending a lot of time in the common area on the ground floor. She liked the noises and if she closed her eyes she was briefly reminded of home. Outside was cold and while she’d had some snow adventures she liked inside, where there was warmth, more. She hadn’t spoken to everyone who lived at the inn but she’s seen people around. It was interesting to watch them work and she found that she was able to learn without stopping and asking someone what they were doing.

Her dark eyes followed Credence for part of the day, watching him clean. They’d kept houses tidy on her island but there really wasn’t a need to spend a lot of time sweeping when you had a dirt floor. There were sometimes pieces of the roof to pick up or the bundles they used for roofing materials would slip and cause leaks but that took only a few minutes to fix. It took violent wind storms for any real house work to be needed.

She noticed that he kept looking to the box that was resting on the mantel. By the time he stopped to pick it up she wanted to know what was inside just as much as he did. Her dark eyes watched him; curiosity shining in her irises as he carefully opened it. Moana couldn’t see the necklace from where she was sitting but she saw Credence and her smile dropped. She watched the chair clatter to the floor and instinctively ran to the boy’s side. He didn’t look hurt…

"Are you okay? What is it?" Moana’s eyes were on him, not the box that he’d left on the floor, trying to make sure that he was okay. "Nothing is going to hurt you here." She gets very protective of people very quickly and after seeing Credence working, his excitement building when he looked at that box, she’d decided that she wanted to protect that.

[repressings]

He knows her--not by name, but by sight. In a sea of plain things she is bright, inquisitive and talkative and Credence hasn't said much to her, mostly out of trying to be polite. There's large part of him that thinks the better he stays out of the way the quicker he can dodge an oncoming storm, though whether or not the storm is metaphorical and from the observers or he himself, or figurative, it's hard to say.

Now, though, his brain is free of idle contemplations. All he can think about is the necklace, and that the observers know far more about him than he'd like. The girl that curls up by the fireside has rushed to his aid, thankfully not touching him, and as she bends down Credence shakes his head, nearly violently.

He's overreacting. This whole thing is an overreaction. And yet his scarred hands are shaking and he feels dread, constantly lingering, constantly there. He swallows, and his voice is thicker when he finally does speak. Still soft, but with an element of something else.

"I'm sorry," It's an immediate apology, "It's--it's from home. I didn't want it." It's not the exact one from home, he's sure, but the symbol is enough.

[chosenbytheocean]

Moana didn’t understand. She didn’t think she could but as she looked back at the box and the necklace she knew that she had to do something about it. Her mind turned quickly, frantic thoughts and worry made it hard to think but Moana was stubborn. After a moment she spoke, her voice soft like how her mother often spoke to those frightened by the rain.

"It’ll be okay. You don’t have to keep it. I can hide it for you." She wanted to protect him. To shield him from a memory and a monster she knew nothing about. She wouldn’t ask him either, she’d stand by his side and do what she can. Her grandmother did tell her to follow her heart.

"Can I get your tea? Or help you to a seat." It was just a necklace, it couldn’t hurt him but Moana knew small things that could fill people with rage and fear. It wasn’t something that should be belittled or dismissed. "We’ll make it okay." It wasn’t okay now but the future could be.

Moana smiled at him and held out her hand to him. She didn’t want to be to forward, knowing that people were from different places, but this was how she knew to help.

[repressings]

'We,' the girl says, and his panic gives way to sheer confnusion. Who's we? Who would--

Oh. She means her and him. Credence blinks a few times, slowly--everything about him is slow but somewhat fluid, even in panic a strange mix of vicious liquid and a jittery appearance--before looking over and at the other, confused. He doesn't look her in the eye, of course, and the tips of his ears are still red from embarrassment, but he's calmed down at least.

"I'm sorry," he repeats. He shudders, a great, heaving motion, and dips his head lower. 'We.' It shouldn't be we--he should be able to handle this. He should be able to handle himself. It's just a necklace.

He doesn't take Moana's hand, not at first, but a scarred palm reaches out tentatively after a few seconds of staring at it. He pulls himself up, still hunching himself over.

"You--I'll be okay," he manages, and pulls his face up into something that's similar to a smile--a mimicry of what he thinks it looks like. "I want to keep it. Have you--have you ever found something you didn't want, but needed to keep?"

[chosenbytheocean]

"You have nothing to be sorry for."

Moan continued to smile as she helped him to his feet. She squeezed his hand gently, hoping to pass a comforting warmth before letting it go. He didn't look like the type that was very touchy and she wanted to respect that space.

Her eyes moved back to the cord. "Not exactly. It's not a material item anyway. I was given something and expected to be something or someone that..." Her voice trailed off. "I really don't know if I can." Her eyes looked back at Credence, her expression open, soft and kind. "It isn't exactly the same but I understand. We have to face the things that we're unsure about because that's how we'll grow stronger."

"Right?"