162 Second Guardian

As he held August's hand, Graeme's eyes caught the photo on the bedside table of his parents with him and Greta as kids—the one August had picked up to study that day when they were here to retrieve the Wagoneer.

"I still remember my parents' hands, even though they have been gone now for so long and I was just a pup when I lost them," his eyebrows pinched together. "My mother's were delicate and strong. She had more prominent knuckles," he recalled, running his fingers over August's knuckles. "And her fingernails always looked perfect. She never painted them," he chuckled, thinking of his mother. Effortlessly beautiful and always happy.

"And Dad's…" he started, but his voice caught. He looked at his own hands. They looked just like his father's. "I don't have to try to remember. Mine are the same," he whispered.