CHAPTER 66

The sun was still setting as Caleb and I approached Hawthorne’s house. The simple, red house was set back about 50 feet from the sidewalk, and with its walkway and bushes looked like any other small, suburban house. With its dark red paint and shutters, it had an antique simplicity about it. It was modest.

Still, one could tell it was different. It exuded history.

We both stood there, looking at it, and a silence fell over us.

“I thought it would be bigger,” I said.

Caleb stood there, furrowing his brows.

“What’s wrong?”

“I remember this house,” Caleb said. “I’m not sure from when. But I seem to remember it being somewhere else.”

I looked at him, at his perfectly sculpted features, and marveled at how much he remembered. I wondered what it was like to remember so much. Hundreds of years—thousands. He was carrying around things, experiences, that I could never even dream of. I wondered if it was a blessing or a curse, and I wondered if I would even want that for myself.

I took