The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 529

"Josh," her voice softened, gentle as if she were comforting a massive dog with its ears pinned back in distress.

"This wasn't your fault. I wasn't paying attention. No one could have predicted something like that would happen! You can't keep taking the blame for everything."

"But... but... I just deeply regret... not finding you sooner!"

"You did everything you could." Sloane patted Josh's shoulder lightly. "Stop beating yourself up over it. It's over now."

Josh nodded, a faint glimmer of tears shining in his eyes, but he quickly blinked them away, forcing the emotion back down.

The two resumed walking, their pace even slower than before.

Sloane took a sip of her lukewarm latte and suddenly looked around. She really had never been down this street. The road was lined with gray brick walls covered in withered, dormant ivy. Further ahead, she could vaguely make out the roof of a red-brick building and a neat row of flagpoles.

"Where are we, Josh?" She tilted her head, trying to get her bearings. "I don't think we've ever walked this way before."

Josh stopped, looking up at the heavy, closed gates ahead.

The gates were wrought iron, painted dark green. Above them hung an elegant wooden sign with gold-leaf lettering.

*Riverdale International.*

Faint sounds of children playing drifted from over the walls. The pure, joyful laughter chimed through the air, completely contrasting with the somber quiet of the street outside.

He stared at the school sign for a long time—so long that Sloane assumed he hadn't heard her question.

Then, the corner of his mouth curved up slightly, and he finally answered, "Looks like an elementary school. It's my first time walking down here, too."

He pulled his gaze away from the gates and looked at Sloane. For a brief second, she thought she saw a bizarre flash of dark guilt in his eyes, but she quickly dismissed it as her imagination.

She spotted a familiar profile.

Standing under the ginkgo tree to the left of the gates was Garrison. He was wearing a dark, tailored overcoat, his left arm still strapped in its sling. The stark white cast practically glowed under the overcast winter sky.

He was bent over slightly, using his good arm to adjust a slipping backpack on a young boy's shoulders.

The boy looked to be around ten years old, wearing a navy blue school jacket over a checkered shirt collar. His slightly wavy hair had a small tuft sticking up in the wind.

He was looking up at Garrison, his mouth moving as he spoke with utter seriousness. Garrison was leaning in to listen, a faint but incredibly genuine smile on his lips.

Then, the boy turned his head toward the street.

In the next second, Sloane's pupils constricted violently.