The Curious Inheritance of Oliver Grayson

Finding a New Rhythm

A quiet day dawned at the duplex, pale sunlight creeping through the blinds and warming the living room's soft carpet. Oliver sat curled on the couch, wearing one of his new toddler outfits—a simple blue sweatshirt with matching elastic-waist pants. He fiddled absently with a small toy car the lawyer had picked up at the mall, rolling it back and forth while his mind drifted. Even this silly item felt oddly comforting against the backdrop of everything he'd lost.

It had been a couple of days since the trip to the mall—a trip that cemented, in Oliver's mind, just how thoroughly his body (and parts of his cognition) had regressed. He still couldn't read store signs or price tags, and he'd used his diaper more than once without noticing. Each incident chipped away at his sense of dignity, yet he kept reminding himself that he was lucky his adult awareness, however imperfect, remained intact.

The lawyer emerged from the small kitchen, carrying two mugs of hot chocolate. He paused, setting Oliver's mug on the table with a soft smile. "Morning," he said quietly. "I figured a warm drink might help you wake up. Did you sleep okay?"

Oliver nodded, though he was distracted by the toy car. His mind wanted to form the word 'Thanks,' but for a split second, he forgot how to shape the phrase. A pang of anxiety flared, and he forced himself to speak deliberately. "Thank... you," he said, cheeks coloring. You're fine, he reminded himself. Focus.

The lawyer didn't comment on Oliver's short pause. Instead, he sat down in a nearby armchair, sipping his drink thoughtfully. "I was thinking," he began gently, "we could set up a routine that suits your... new situation. We'll work on the reading problem, see if we can rebuild some of those skills. And maybe figure out a better system for diaper changes, so you don't have to stress about accidents as much."

Oliver felt his diaper rustle under him, a humiliating but constant presence. That mention of a "better system" for changes made his stomach twist. Yet logically, he knew it was needed. "Yeah," he sighed, "probably best."

He took a careful sip of hot chocolate, savoring the sweet warmth. More than once, he had nearly spilled drinks because of his smaller hands and lack of coordination. Setting the mug down, he found himself glancing around the room, noting the boxes they still hadn't fully unpacked. Among them were supplies for possible tutoring sessions—colorful workbooks, large-print readers. The lawyer had brought them home, hoping Oliver could use them to re-familiarize himself with letters and numbers.

The thought of learning to read again at his age stung. But refusing to try would leave him even more dependent. "When do we, uh, start... lessons?" he asked, voice tighter than he meant.

"Whenever you feel ready," the lawyer replied. "No rush. We can pick a few exercises each day, nothing too overwhelming." He paused, eyeing the toy car in Oliver's hands. "And if it's too frustrating, we can take breaks. I'm here to support you, remember?"

Oliver managed a nod, though a flicker of childish irritation surfaced. Part of him just wanted to push it all aside. Why can't things just go back to normal? a small voice whined in his head. But that was the reality now—normal had changed.

With a weary exhale, he set the toy car down and slid off the couch, toddler feet pattering on the carpet. "Okay," he said, "let's at least look at the books, see what we're dealing with."

⸻

They spread a few beginner-level reading primers on the coffee table, each adorned with bright cartoons and big block letters. Oliver dropped to his knees on the floor, leaning over the colorful pages. The first few letters danced in front of him, and he had to slow down, carefully naming each one. A, B, C, he mouthed. He got stuck at D, momentarily blanking on what the shape represented.