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He moved the blanket covering his view away from the cover as Tommy admired the book. It was a heavy, dusted book, unused, from what his 5-year-old mind could tell, with golden lettering on the front, that shined when the light hit it just the right way.
When he opened it, he saw pictures of his parents. They were there, and so was his grandma, whom he knew, they had her picture in their living room, right next to her old necklace.
The first picture is of his grandparents, in their lap is a baby boy with a birthmark on the left side of his neck. It wasn't visible that much, but for the small boy listing through the found book it was intriguing—the small darker patch on the little human’s neck.
He lists through the pages, the pictures are centred around the baby, crawling or drawing, with his parents or family friends.
He adjusts the blanket, it got too crumpled up at his feet and turns to another page.
Tommy observes it, there, he sees a family with the baby in the middle, focusing on a cake with one candle. The cake is a farm-themed one, with pigs on the top made from fondant.
The photos are perfect. They have a small family with life in their eyes, happiness puring of those pictures, even as it is only a piece of paper, the moments they capture are what makes them more worth than any other paper.
Tommy is starting to get bored. These pictures are nice, but for the 5 year old it is losing interest, and fast. He skips most of the book, going to the back, and seeing the last picture of the album.
It’s his grandparents with a boy, again. This time something is different. He can’t pinpoint what it is, but there is something wrong with the adults’ faces.
It seems so close to the last one, a baby Tommy in the middle with a cake in front of them, decorated with cows and one candle. The adults are smiling at him, but the smile doesn’t reach their eyes.
Tommy frowns at the discovery and decides to uncover the mystery. Where is the boy, and why aren’t his parents happy?
He readjusts his grip on the flashlight and starts looking back. There is a photo of his mum, lying on a bed in a hospital, still pregnant, his dad presumably behind the camera.
His mum’s in a field, with a sunset, her lying in a grass field with a book next to her smiling at the camera. The more further Tommy goes, the less frequent the pictures are, and the less are his parents, and grandparents, smiling.
It goes on like that for a few minutes, but there are no traces of the baby boy with a birthmark on his neck.
Tommy looks again at the beginning, just to ensure he isn't making this up, that the boy is there, and it isn't his imagination playing tricks on him.
The boy is there.
Then why isn't he in any of these pictures?
He flips the pages and then stops. Looking at the double-page he found in the middle of the book. A boy with pink hair laying in a hospital bed, with an IV connected to him, with an oxygen mask over his face, but the birthmark is there.
It’s him, the boy from the beginning, he found him.
His eyes are lit up, a small smile on his face. He looks tired. So so tired. But he is smiling, and you can see that the smile is real. There is so little of a life in his eyes, but he ensures everyone knows he is okay.
Under the picture, in neat handwriting is written something. Tommy tries to read it, only making the name. Alex. The rest of the text, unknown to the toddler, says ‘Fly high angel. You will never be forgotten, Alex “Technoblade” Watson’.
Who is this?
He looks at another page, his parents are older, with grey hair on their faces, a small bump visible on his mom’s belly with an ultrasound in their hands, showing it proudly to the camera No sign of Alex.
And the skip. There is so much time undocumented in the album, Tommy can’t comprehend.
He stands up and runs to his dad.
“Dad! Can I ask you something?” his dad looked up, his mostly grey hair mixing with his naturally blond one.
“Who is Alex?” Tommy asks, showing the picture of the boy in the hospital bed. His dad looks at the picture, eyes filling with tears. He pulled Tommy close to his body, burying his face in his hair.
“That was your brother,” he said, eyes watering, as he hugged his son closer.
“Can we see him sometimes?”Tommy beams. Mum and dad never told him he has a brother.
“Sometime, bubs. Sometime,” soon enaugh, but not too soon