Chapter 234 unfolds with Tooms and Saint sitting quietly together, sharing a moment heavy with reflection and softened by the peace that only comes after chaos. Though recently freed from imminent death, Tooms appears unusually calm, the lines of stress replaced by a distant look of contentment. His voice, gentle and steady, drifts into a memory from childhood—one tied to a peaceful morning in Monta Clare and a dog named Scout. He recalls how that loyal animal once stood between him and a swarm of bees, never flinching in its protection. Saint listens, silent but attentive, as Tooms speaks of the hive and the queen it served—a parallel that doesn’t go unnoticed. The bees, defending something sacred, remind him of the many young girls he once tried to protect. Though the metaphor is simple, the weight behind it settles heavily in the room, as if Scout’s sacrifice stands for far more than a childhood tale.

The conversation turns gently toward the past, where Saint acknowledges that Tooms had, at one point, become a shelter for girls who had nowhere else to go. These were girls discarded by the world, girls who mistook danger for love, and yet he gave them a place to feel human again. Saint’s voice carries gratitude—not admiration for perfection, but for the effort he made when most people turned away. But Tooms, eyes lowered and voice raspy, doesn’t share the same sense of comfort. He confesses that not all could be saved, and those that slipped through still haunt him. There were warning signs he missed, voices he failed to hear in time, especially when it came to Eli Aaron. The man was a shadow masquerading as salvation, and by the time Tooms realized the danger, the damage had already begun. It wasn’t enough to open doors; he should have taught them how to run.

As they sit in the fading light, Tooms brings up Grace—a name that sends a tremor through both of them. His memories of her are tangled: moments of laughter, glimpses of hope, and the unbearable sorrow that followed her absence. Saint’s face hardens slightly, not out of anger but a quiet grief she’s never fully voiced. She presses Tooms for the truth—not just the details of what happened, but whether he knew the kind of man Aaron really was when Grace entered the picture. Tooms pauses before admitting he suspected something but didn’t act quickly enough. He thought Aaron was strange, maybe even dangerous, but the full extent of his darkness only became clear when it was too late. That hesitation, that failure to warn Grace, weighs on him like a stone tied to his conscience.

Saint responds with a blend of understanding and quiet confrontation. She tells him the past can’t be changed, but owning the truth matters. Tooms nods, though his eyes betray the guilt he carries—not just for Grace, but also for a boy named Joseph, who once needed more than Tooms was able to give. That memory, like so many others, is etched into the framework of his regret. Joseph had potential, but no direction. Tooms had tried, but circumstances and fear got in the way. Now, all he can do is remember and hope the boy found a path forward. The conversation lingers in that space—between what was lost and what might still be redeemed.

The chapter draws to a close with both of them locked in their own thoughts, but there’s an unspoken understanding exchanged in the silence. The pain, the guilt, and the fragile moments of courage—they all blend into a picture of two people trying to forgive themselves. Neither is perfect, and neither expects the other to be. But in the quiet aftermath of everything, there is room for empathy and the slightest hint of healing. It’s a moment of reckoning, framed not by absolution but by shared sorrow. Through their conversation, the narrative offers a powerful reminder that even those who’ve stumbled the most still carry the capacity to love, to grieve, and, perhaps, to atone.