The Curious Inheritance of Oliver Grayson

Fragments in the Fog

That night, Oliver dreamt in colors he couldn't name.

He stood in an endless hallway, its floor tiled in cool, shifting patterns. The walls were lined with tall windows, but none of them looked out onto anything he recognized—only swirling gray clouds, flickers of distant lights, shadows that moved like memories. The dream wasn't scary. It was... lonely.

And at the far end of the hallway, he saw a door. Tall. Familiar.

He walked toward it.

With each step, echoes grew louder—voices, murmurs, laughter, the clink of glass, the low hum of a projector. Somewhere behind the door, people were waiting. Not just people. Coworkers. Friends.

Colleagues.

He didn't know how he knew that, but he did.

When he reached the handle, his tiny hand hovered just above it. It was too high to reach. He stood on tiptoe, stretched—and suddenly, he wasn't small anymore. His hand grew. His shirt fit. His feet touched the ground firmly.

He gripped the handle and turned it.

Inside was an office. His office. Gray carpeting, a laptop humming on a desk, papers scattered in controlled chaos, and a chair molded to the shape of someone who had sat in it for years. And there, by the window, was a reflection. His reflection.

A man.

Oliver gasped awake.

⸻

Morning light filtered in through the blinds, casting a soft glow on the walls of the small bedroom. He sat up slowly, the blanket slipping off his legs, the familiar rustle of the diaper below reminding him what he had become.

He was small again.

A child again.

And yet...

He remembered.

Not everything. Not names or phone numbers. Not addresses or the taste of morning coffee. But enough.

That hallway. That door. That man.

It had been him.

⸻

The lawyer noticed it at breakfast. Oliver was quieter—not in his usual distracted way, but thoughtful. Focused.

"You all right?" he asked, sliding the cereal bowl across the table.

Oliver nodded. "I had a dream," he said simply, wrapping both hands around the spoon.

The lawyer's eyes lingered on him. "What kind of dream?"

"A hallway. A door. I was big again," Oliver said, pausing to think. "And I remembered my name."

The lawyer smiled gently. "You never really forgot it."

Oliver didn't answer at first. He just ate, slowly, mind clearly elsewhere.

When the bowl was empty, he finally said, "I think I want to try reading again."

The lawyer blinked. That was the first time Oliver had asked for it in... days? Weeks?

"Of course," he replied carefully, hopeful but cautious. "We'll go slow."

They sat together on the living room floor, sunlight warming the rug beneath them. The flashcards came out of the box again, corners a little worn. The lawyer placed the first one down.

"A," he said.

Oliver stared at it.

"A," he repeated, and this time, it felt... right.

The shape, the sound, the meaning—it clicked.

Then came B. Then C. Slowly, hesitantly, Oliver worked his way through the deck. He didn't get all of them. But he tried. And with every card, a tiny crack of light broke through the fog in his mind.

Something inside him stirred again. Not in protest. Not in anger. Just a quiet pull.

A reminder.

You were something else once. And maybe... you still are.

⸻

That evening, as the stars blinked into view outside the bedroom window, Oliver sat by the glass in his pajamas. He didn't ask for a story. He just looked up at the sky.

The lawyer came in, watching from the doorway.

"Thinking about your dream?" he asked.

Oliver nodded. "I think it's still there. That part of me. The old me."

The lawyer walked in slowly, kneeling beside him. "It is. And when you're ready, we'll find a way to bring him back."

Oliver turned, eyes wide and steady. "Not just him. I think... maybe I can be both."

He didn't entirely know what that meant.

But for the first time in weeks, Oliver felt something he hadn't felt in a long time.

Balance.