The Clothes Swap Challenge

Chapter One - Just for Laughs

Saturday mornings usually began with noble intentions, but by eleven o'clock Edward and Amelia had abandoned theirs entirely.

"I'm telling you," Amelia declared from her spot sprawled upside down across the sofa, "there cannot possibly be another challenge video left on the internet." Edward, sitting cross-legged on the rug with the television remote balanced on his knee, clicked to the next recommendation anyway.

"There are literally millions."

"Millions of people making fools of themselves."

"Exactly."

The next video opened with dramatic music and two teenagers pointing exaggeratedly at piles of clothing, and Amelia groaned the moment she saw it. "Oh no."

"What?"

"I've seen this one." Edward looked over as she explained. "'Sibling Clothes Swap Challenge,'" he read aloud, and Amelia snorted. "They swap clothes for a day." He pressed play anyway.

For ten minutes they watched complete strangers attempt to navigate life dressed in each other's clothes, laughing at exaggerated reactions, failed attempts to walk in heels, and increasingly desperate complaints about the lack of pockets. When one boy dramatically held up a tiny skirt and asked, "Where's the rest of it?" Amelia burst into laughter. "It's always the pockets."

"They're right though," Edward said. "How do you carry anything?"

"We don't."

"Seriously?"

"We've been complaining for decades." He looked genuinely horrified. "That's ridiculous."

"I know."

When the video ended, another automatically began, and then another, and by the fourth Amelia was wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. "I swear they're all exactly the same," she said, and Edward just shrugged. "Still funny." She studied him for a second before a mischievous smile spread across her face. "...Bet you wouldn't do it."

He looked up. "What?"

"A clothes swap."

He barked a laugh. "You think I'd chicken out?"

"I think you'd take one look at tights and surrender."

"Tights can't be that complicated."

Amelia stared at him. "They absolutely can."

Edward stood up dramatically. "Challenge accepted." Amelia blinked, genuinely surprised. "Wait...really?"

"Why not?"

"I thought you'd say no."

"I was going to."

"And?"

"You looked too confident."

Amelia grinned. "Oh, you're going to regret this."

Half an hour later, Amelia stood in the doorway of her bedroom holding up two possible outfits.

"No dresses."

"Aww."

"No."

"Fine." She eventually settled on a soft cream jumper, a navy skater skirt, black tights and a pair of white trainers, and Edward eyed the collection suspiciously. "The skirt looks... short."

"It's knee length."

"It looks tiny."

"That's because you're used to trousers."

He sighed dramatically. "If I fall over, I'm blaming you."

"You'll survive."

"You sound very confident."

"I've worn skirts since I can remember."

"Fair point." Meanwhile Edward's contribution to Amelia's outfit consisted of jeans, trainers, one of his oversized hoodies and a zip-up fleece, and when she held them up she couldn't help herself. "...This is just your normal wardrobe."

"Exactly."

"I look like I'm about to help someone move house."

"You look comfortable."

"I'll admit...the hoodie is nice."

"It has pockets." Her eyes widened. "Actual pockets?" He nodded proudly, and she shoved both hands inside immediately. "Oh, that's unfair."

"I know."

Twenty minutes later Amelia knocked gently on her own bedroom door. "You alive?"

"...Maybe."

"You've been awfully quiet."

"I think I've fought the tights into submission."

"You 'think?'"

"They won the first three rounds."

She laughed. "Need help?" There was a pause before he answered. "...Maybe." She opened the door just enough to peek inside, and found Edward standing in front of the mirror looking utterly baffled. "I don't understand how these things have a front and a back." Amelia took one look and burst into helpless laughter. "They're inside out!"

"I knew that."

"No you didn't."

"I suspected."

She showed him how to turn them the right way around. "See?"

"That seems unnecessarily complicated."

"Says the person who wears the same jeans every day."

"They're reliable."

"They're boring."

"They have pockets."

"Yeah... I walked into that one."

A few minutes later Edward emerged from the bedroom, and when Amelia looked up and blinked, the outfit actually suited him, not because it looked ridiculous or funny, but simply because it seemed strangely natural. Edward immediately folded his arms. "Don't laugh."

"I wasn't going to."

"You were thinking about it."

"I was."

"So?"

Amelia tilted her head. "...It actually works."

Edward frowned. "You're lying."

"I'm really not." He looked down at himself; the cream jumper was a little loose on him, the navy skirt sat neatly at his waist, and the black tights made his legs look oddly elegant. "...Huh."

"See?"

"I expected to look much sillier."

"I did too." There was a beat before Edward experimentally spun on the spot, and the skirt flared gently before settling again, his eyebrows shooting upward. "Oh."

Amelia laughed. "You did the spin."

"I didn't mean to."

"Everyone does." He spun again. "...Okay."

"What?"

"I get it."

"You get what?"

"The spin." She folded her arms with exaggerated satisfaction. "Told you."

The next hour passed with steadily increasing amusement, as Edward discovered that sitting in a skirt required slightly more thought than he'd expected, while Amelia slouched in the incredibly comfortable hoodie and refused to give his back. "I understand why you steal mine now," Edward complained, and she shot back, "I regret nothing." He kept absent-mindedly smoothing the skirt over his knees whenever he sat down, and although Amelia noticed, she said nothing about it.

When they made sandwiches for lunch, Edward frowned thoughtfully. "I feel taller."

"You aren't."

"No, but..." He looked down. "...Everything moves differently."

"The skirt?"

"I think so."

"You get used to it."

"Huh." Later she painted one fingernail bright blue "for science," and Edward protested all of three seconds before holding out his other hand. "If we're doing one..."

"...We might as well do all ten?"

"...Might as well."

By mid-afternoon the challenge had stopped feeling like a challenge at all. They watched television, argued about which pizza toppings should be illegal, and played three rounds of a racing game, and somewhere along the way Edward forgot he was wearing borrowed clothes entirely. He wasn't pretending anymore; he simply was. When Amelia wandered into the kitchen to make tea, Edward remained in the living room, and as he absent-mindedly stood to stretch, the mirror above the fireplace caught him unexpectedly. He glanced up, then stopped, and the room went completely quiet.

His reflection looked back at him; the soft jumper, the navy skirt, the faintly chipped blue nail polish, his hair falling untidily across his forehead. Nothing about the image made him laugh; instead an unfamiliar calm settled quietly inside his chest, not excitement and not embarrassment, but recognition, like hearing the final note of a song resolve exactly where it was supposed to. His throat tightened for reasons he couldn't explain, and he stared for several long seconds.

"...Edward?" Amelia's voice floated in from the kitchen. "You want sugar in your tea?" He blinked, and the feeling disappeared almost as quickly as it had arrived. "...Yeah," he called back, still looking at the mirror.

"The usual." He looked at his reflection once more before quietly joining her into the kitchen, unable to explain what had just happened and not even sure anything had happened at all. He only knew one strange, undeniable thing: for a brief moment, looking in that mirror had felt more natural than looking in any mirror ever had before.

Chapter Two - After the Challenge

On Sunday morning, Edward reached automatically for his favourite pair of jeans, pulled them on, and paused, then frowned, because they felt normal, which was exactly the problem. He couldn't explain why yesterday, wearing Amelia's clothes hadn't been funny, embarrassing, or unexpected, but now his own clothes somehow felt unfamiliar. He shook his head. "You're overthinking this," he muttered, tugging his hoodie over his head and heading downstairs.

Amelia was already making toast. She glanced up. "Morning."

"Morning." She slid a plate across the counter. "You slept in."

"I was tired."

"Liar."

"I was thinking." That answer escaped before Edward had a chance to stop it, and Amelia looked at him for half a second before simply nodding. "Happens." She changed the subject immediately. "So... rematch on Mario Kart later?"

"You only want revenge."

"I absolutely want revenge." Conversation returned to normal, but Edward was strangely grateful she hadn't asked what he'd been thinking about, because he didn't quite know himself.

School started again on Monday, and where Edward normally never paid much attention to what anyone wore, now it seemed impossible not to notice. A girl walked past wearing a long green cardigan that looked comfortable; someone else had painted their nails lavender; a group of friends laughed together, colourful skirts catching the breeze as they crossed the playground. Without meaning to, Edward imagined how it might feel, and the thought appeared so naturally that it startled him, so he quickly looked away. What is wrong with me? The question followed him through every lesson.

By Wednesday he'd developed an irritating new habit, whenever he passed a mirror, he expected, just for a fraction of a second, to see something else. Not someone different, just that version of himself from Saturday. The expectation vanished the instant he actually looked, leaving only jeans, hoodie, and messy hair, exactly as always, and each time he felt a tiny, inexplicable disappointment.

That evening Amelia wandered into the living room carrying laundry, then paused. "...Have you stolen my shampoo?" Edward looked up from his homework so quickly he nearly dropped his pen. "What?"

"My raspberry one."

"Oh." He hesitated. "I...used some." Amelia blinked. "You hate fruity shampoo."

"I know."

"So why..."

Edward searched desperately for an answer. "It smelled nice?" Another pause. "...Fair enough." She shrugged and went upstairs, and Edward let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding.

The changes were so small that nobody else would have noticed, but Amelia did. She noticed Edward spending longer drying his hair, noticed him absent-mindedly smoothing his fringe forward instead of pushing it back, and noticed him standing in the toiletries aisle during the weekly supermarket trip while pretending to compare shower gels. She noticed, but she didn't ask, not yet.

Friday evening found them both doing homework in the living room, or pretending to. Edward had read the same paragraph in his history textbook five times and couldn't remember a single word. Amelia looked up from her maths worksheet. "You've been on page forty-three for twenty minutes."

"...Have I?"

"You okay?" There it was, the question, simple, gentle, not demanding, just you okay? Edward opened his mouth and almost said something, almost admitted that he'd spent an entire week wondering why he'd felt happier wearing his sister's clothes than his own. Instead he smiled. "Just tired."

"Hmm." She studied him for a second, then accepted the answer. "Tea?"

"Please." She stood and wandered into the kitchen, and Edward stared after her, hating that he was lying to her but unsure how he could explain something he didn't understand himself.

Saturday afternoon arrived almost exactly one week after the challenge. Amelia had gone to the corner shop, and their parents were visiting relatives for the afternoon, so the house was quiet. Edward wandered aimlessly upstairs, not planning to do anything, or at least that was what he told himself. As he passed Amelia's bedroom, the door stood slightly ajar, and inside, folded neatly on the chair beside her desk, lay the cream jumper he'd worn the week before, the very same one.

He stopped walking, his heart beating just a little faster. Don't, he told himself, but he took another step anyway. It's weird, he thought, and took another. She won't mind... No. He sighed and turned away, making it almost to his own room before he stopped. For several long seconds he stood completely still in the hallway, and finally, very quietly, he walked back.

Five minutes later Edward sat cross-legged on Amelia's bedroom carpet with the cream jumper resting in his lap, running his fingers gently across the soft fabric. It was ridiculous, he told himself; it was only a jumper, and nothing magical had happened last Saturday, it was just clothing. So why did simply touching it make that strange feeling in his chest return? He held it against himself, closed his eyes, and smiled, just a little.

The front door clicked. Amelia's voice drifted up the stairs "I'm back!" His eyes flew open in a sudden panic, and he folded the jumper as quickly as he could, trying to remember exactly how it had been lying on the chair. Not like that. No. Like... Footsteps sounded on the stairs. "Edward?"

"I'm up here!" The footsteps grew closer, and he managed to place the jumper back on the chair just as Amelia appeared in the doorway. For one frozen moment neither of them spoke, her eyes moving from the chair to Edward and back again. "Oh." His stomach dropped. "I can explain." She looked at him, and there was no laughter, no teasing, no confusion, just quiet understanding. "You know," she said gently, "it's probably comfier if you wear it." Edward blinked. "...What?" She smiled. "If you wanted to borrow it..." She shrugged. "...You could've just asked." His carefully rehearsed explanation vanished. "You...you're not angry?"

"Edward." She gave him a look only sisters seemed capable of giving. "It's a jumper." He laughed, a tiny, relieved laugh. "I guess it is." She smiled back. "Next time..." She picked the jumper up from the chair and held it out towards him. "...Don't wrinkle it trying to put it back."

For a moment Edward simply stared, then, hesitantly, he accepted it, and the jumper felt impossibly soft in his hands. Neither of them said another word about it; they didn't need to. As Amelia headed downstairs she allowed herself the smallest smile, she didn't know what Edward was working through and wasn't going to guess, but she knew one thing for certain, whatever had happened during that silly clothes swap hadn't stayed in Saturday, and whatever happened next, Edward shouldn't have to face it alone.

Chapter Three - Borrowed Things

By unspoken agreement, the cream jumper became "borrowed." There was no announcement and no conversation; it simply stopped living exclusively in Amelia's wardrobe. Sometimes it was folded on Edward's chair, sometimes it found its way back to Amelia's room, and neither of them commented on it.

A week later Amelia wandered into Edward's room carrying a small pile of clothes. "I was clearing out my wardrobe." Edward looked up from his laptop. "Oh?" She held up a pale blue cardigan. "It doesn't really fit me anymore."

"It looks fine."

"It fits." She smiled. "It just isn't me." She placed it neatly on the end of Edward's bed. "If you want it." He stared at it. "...Really?"

"I was going to donate it." Another tiny shrug. "It'll get more use here." She left before he could answer, and the cardigan stayed exactly where she'd left it for almost an hour before Edward finally reached over. The wool was incredibly soft.

The sleeves were slightly too short and the shoulders sat a little differently from his hoodies, but somehow it felt wonderful, and he caught himself smiling again, that same smile from the mirror he still couldn't explain.

"You've stolen my cardigan." Amelia leaned against his bedroom door that evening, and Edward looked up guiltily. "I..." She grinned. "I'm kidding." He blinked. "Oh."

"It looks nice." He instinctively looked down. "You think?"

"I do." He hesitated. "It doesn't look..." He struggled for the words. "...Weird?" She considered the question. "No." She answered so simply that Edward almost believed her immediately. "It just looks comfortable." Comfortable. He liked that word.

Their Saturday afternoons quietly changed. Instead of watching challenge videos, they browsed online clothing shops together, officially because Amelia was "looking for ideas," but unofficially she noticed which colours Edward paused on; soft greens, dusty blues, creams, lavenders, never bright pink, never anything flashy. One afternoon she pointed at a knitted jumper. "What do you think?"

"It's nice."

"You hesitated."

"It might be..." He searched. "...Too much."

"For who?" He had no answer.

A few days later she wandered into his room carrying a bottle. "Here." He caught it. "...Moisturiser?"

"My favourite."

"I don't use moisturiser."

"You don't." She folded her arms. "Your hands also resemble sandpaper." He laughed. "I work in the garage with Dad."

"I know."

"Fine." He squeezed out a tiny amount. "...It smells nice."

"Told you."

"What is it?"

"Vanilla."

Edward rubbed it into his hands, and the scent lingered softly, and for reasons he couldn't explain, he loved it.

Little rituals began appearing. Amelia showed Edward how to use conditioner properly, and he discovered that softer hair made him absurdly happy. She taught him how to file nails instead of biting them, and they painted them again one Saturday afternoon, this time not 'for science' but just because. Edward glanced at remnants of blue on his nails. "I forgot I was wearing polish." Amelia smiled. "That's usually a good sign."

"What is?"

"When something stops feeling like pretending." Edward looked at her, and she immediately changed the subject. "So..." She held up two bottles. "Purple or silver glitter?" He laughed. "Absolutely not glitter."

"Coward."

One rainy Sunday they decided to reorganise Amelia's wardrobe, mostly because she'd run out of space, and halfway through folding jumpers she casually held up a dark green skirt. "What about this?" Edward froze. She wasn't looking at him; she was simply folding clothes. "I..." "It's okay if the answer's no." He swallowed. "...Could I?" She smiled without turning around. "Of course." No excitement, no teasing, no questions, just 'of course.'

Later that afternoon Edward stood alone in his bedroom with the cardigan, the cream jumper, and the green skirt folded neatly on the bed, his heart racing. He wasn't scared of being caught; he was scared of the feeling, because every time he tried these clothes on, that strange certainty returned. Slowly he changed, cardigan, then skirt, and looked down, the familiar flutter of nervousness rising in him. Then he walked towards the mirror, and unlike last time, he didn't accidentally catch his reflection; this time he chose to look.

The room disappeared. There was only the person in the mirror, no laughter, no embarrassment, no pretending, just peace. His shoulders relaxed, and without thinking he tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, the movement feeling completely natural. His eyes filled unexpectedly with tears, not sad tears, but relief, a quiet, overwhelming relief he had no name for. He whispered to the empty room, "...Why does this feel like me?" The question hung in the silence, and no answer came, only that same calm certainty settling gently inside his chest.

"Edward?" A soft knock interrupted him. "You decent?" He quickly opened the door, and Amelia stood outside carrying two mugs of hot chocolate. She took one look at him, the cardigan, the skirt, the uncertain expression, and smiled warmly. "I figured you might need this." She handed him a mug, and neither of them spoke for a few moments while steam curled into the air between them.

Finally Edward asked, barely above a whisper, "...Did I seem different that day?" Amelia didn't answer immediately; she thought carefully. "I've been trying to work that out."

"And?" She met his eyes. "You laughed more." He blinked. "You relaxed." Another pause. "And..." She smiled softly. "...I've never seen you look so comfortable in your own skin." The words landed with unexpected weight. Not pretty, not handsome, not feminine. Comfortable. Comfortable in your own skin.

Edward looked down into the mug. "I don't know what's happening to me."

"I know."

He looked up in surprise.

"You do?"

"I know you don't know." She reached over and gently squeezed his hand. "You don't have to figure it out so soon."

"What if it means something?"

"It probably does."

"What if it changes everything?" She smiled. "Then we'll deal with everything." He laughed shakily. "You make that sound easy."

"It won't be." She squeezed his hand again. "But you won't be doing it on your own." For the first time since the clothes swap, Edward allowed himself to believe that might actually be true, and whatever this feeling was, whatever it eventually turned out to mean, they didn't have to solve it today. For now, it was enough to know that someone had seen the happiest version of them, and instead of asking them to hide it, had quietly made room for it to grow.

Chapter Four - We'll Figure It Out

It started, as many important conversations did, with absolutely nothing important. The weather had trapped Edward and Amelia indoors for most of Saturday, and by lunchtime they'd exhausted every board game in the house, twice. "I refuse to lose at Scrabble again," Amelia announced.

"You lost because apparently 'floof' isn't a word."

"It should be."

"It isn't."

"It has emotional meaning." Edward laughed. "You can't score emotional meaning." She sighed dramatically. "The English language is holding me back." They abandoned the game in favour of hot chocolate and settled onto the living room sofa, and outside, rain tapped steadily against the windows. For a while they simply sat together, comfortably quiet, and it was becoming easier to be quiet around each other.

"You've been smiling more." The comment came so casually Edward almost missed it. "Hmm?"

"Lately." Amelia stirred her drink. "I've noticed." He looked down. "Have I?"

"Mhm."

"I thought I'd been...confused."

"You have." She smiled. "They're not mutually exclusive." He laughed into his mug. "I suppose not." Another comfortable silence settled between them before Edward spoke, before fear could stop him. "I've been reading." Amelia looked up. "Oh?"

"Just..." He rubbed the back of his neck. "People talking about figuring themselves out." She nodded, no interruption, no assumptions. "I don't know if any of it fits."

"You don't have to know."

"I keep thinking I'm supposed to."

"Says who?"

"...Me."

She considered that. "You're allowed to be a work in progress." The words settled warmly somewhere inside him. A work in progress. That sounded much less frightening.

Later that afternoon Amelia disappeared upstairs and returned carrying a large storage box. Edward raised an eyebrow. "What's that?"

"My wardrobe's overflow."

"I thought we'd already sorted it."

"We did." She set the box down with exaggerated ceremony. "This..." She opened the lid. "...is everything that didn't make the cut." Scarves, cardigans, jumpers, skirts, hairbands, and colourful tights rolled into neat little bundles spilled out, and Edward laughed. "You own far too many clothes."

"I know." She sat cross-legged on the carpet. "I've decided something."

"Oh?"

"If they're just sitting in a box..." She shrugged. "...That's boring." He looked at her uncertainly. "So?"

"So..." She picked up a soft sage-green cardigan and tossed it gently towards him. "Try it." He caught it automatically. "Just like that?"

"Just like that."

"No ceremony?"

"Nope."

"No challenge?"

"Nope."

"No YouTube?"

"Definitely not." He smiled. "Okay."

Half an hour later the floor had disappeared beneath little piles of neatly folded clothes, and Amelia had become a surprisingly enthusiastic stylist. "No."

"What?"

"That jumper."

"I like this jumper."

"It fights with the cardigan."

"They're clothes."

"They're 'different' clothes."

"I don't understand fashion."

"I know." She handed him another jumper. "This one." He changed again, and she tilted her head thoughtfully. "...Better."

"You say that like a scientist."

"I am conducting extremely important research."

"Into what?" She grinned. "What makes Edward smile." He rolled his eyes. "That's cheesy."

"It worked."

"It absolutely worked." Because he was smiling, again.

Eventually Edward emerged wearing a pastel blue t-shirt, a black skirt and the familiar blue cardigan, and Amelia looked up from where she was folding clothes, then, without saying anything, smiled, not because he looked like someone else, but because he looked like himself; relaxed, bright, peaceful. She had come to recognise that expression; it had first appeared during one ridiculous clothes swap, and now it arrived almost every time Edward stopped worrying about whether he was allowed to enjoy something.

"I think..." Edward said quietly. "I know why I keep coming back." Amelia waited. "I don't think it's really about the clothes."

"No?" He shook his head slowly. "It's..." He searched for words. "...When I look like this..." His voice became almost a whisper. "...I stop feeling like I'm pretending to be me." The room fell silent, and Amelia's eyes softened. "I've been wondering if that's what you meant."

"I don't know what it means."

"You don't have to."

"What if I'm wrong?"

"About how you feel?" He nodded. She smiled gently. "I don't think feelings work like maths questions." He laughed. "I wish they did."

"I know."

"There'd be a marking scheme."

"And revision guides."

"And someone would've put the answers online." They both laughed at that, and the tension dissolved.

After dinner they found themselves back where everything had begun, on the sofa, watching far too many videos online, and when another clothes-swap challenge appeared in the recommendations, Amelia burst out laughing. "Oh no."

"What?"

"Remember when you said tights couldn't be that complicated?" Edward groaned. "I was young."

"It was two months ago."

"I've grown."

"You've definitely learned about tights."

"They're still complicated."

"They always will be."

He smiled. "You know..."

"What?"

"I'm glad you dared me." She looked over. "I nearly didn't."

"Really?"

"I thought you'd tell me to get lost."

"I nearly did." They shared a grin. "Good thing we're both stubborn."

"The Clarke family trait."

As evening settled outside, they carried the borrowed clothes back upstairs, except not all of them went back. Edward paused in the doorway of Amelia's room holding the blue t-shirt and the blue cardigan. "I should probably..." He gestured towards her wardrobe. Amelia frowned. "Why?"

"They're yours." She thought for a moment, then walked over to her wardrobe and opened one door before turning to Edward. "Help me with something." Confused, he stepped closer as she slid a handful of hangers along the rail, creating an empty space, not a large one, just enough. She looked at the gap, then back at him. "I think..." She smiled. "...This bit belongs to whoever needs it." Edward stared. "You mean..."

"I mean..." She gently took the cardigan from his hands and hung it in the newly cleared space, then hung the t-shirt next to it, and closed the wardrobe door halfway. "So." She dusted off her hands. "We officially have shared wardrobe territory." He laughed through suspiciously watery eyes. "Is that a thing?"

"It is now."

"You just invented it."

"I do my best work under pressure."

For a long time neither of them spoke, and the room glowed softly in the evening light. Edward looked at the wardrobe, then at Amelia. "I still don't know who I am." She nodded. "I know."

"I might change my mind about things."

"That's allowed."

"I might discover things I wasn't expecting."

"I'd be disappointed if you didn't."

He laughed. "You make everything sound like an adventure."

She pretended to think very hard. "I mean..." She smiled. "...It sort of is.

He considered that, an adventure, not a problem to solve, not a puzzle with one right answer, just an adventure.

"I don't know what happens next."

"Nope."

"I don't know what I'll call myself."

"Nope."

"I don't know what I'll want six months from now."

"Nope." He looked at her. "Aren't you worried?" Amelia smiled with the quiet certainty that only someone who loved you completely could manage. "Not really."

"Why not?"

"Because I already know the important bit."

"And what's that?" She reached over and nudged his shoulder. "The happiest I've ever seen you wasn't when you were trying to be someone different." She paused. "It was when you finally stopped trying to be who you thought everyone expected." Edward felt something inside him settle, not because he suddenly had answers, because he didn't, but the questions didn't seem quite so frightening anymore.

Outside, the rain had stopped, and a pale strip of evening sunshine broke through the clouds, spilling across the bedroom floor. Amelia wandered to the window. "Looks like the weather finally made up its mind."

She slipped an arm around his shoulders. "I think we're just getting to the interesting part." Edward looked out at the clearing sky, and although the future was still uncertain, still full of questions, still wonderfully unwritten, for the first time in a long while that didn't feel frightening. It felt exciting, and standing beside his sister who had unknowingly started the whole journey with one silly dare, Edward found themself smiling at the thought of whatever came next.

Neither of them knew where the road would lead, but they knew they wouldn't be walking it alone, and somehow, that was more than enough.

The End