End-of-year family weekend made Tidefall feel too small. Parents filled corridors. Younger siblings stared at everything. Older siblings pretended not to. The dining hall somehow produced enough lunch for hundreds of visitors without anyone seeing the kitchens panic. Jasper's mother hugged him hard enough to lift one foot off the ground.

"Mum."

"You got taller."

"I did not."

His father inspected him critically.

"Maybe four millimetres."

"Traitor."

Jasper had spent midyear break at home, but the academy visit felt different. His parents were entering the version of Tidefall he had built inside his head. He wanted them to like Room Fourteen. Wanted them to understand why the west window mattered. Wanted them to see the dining hall when it was loud. Wanted them to meet Harper and Ava properly instead of as names in letters and mirror calls. That last part happened immediately. Harper's parents arrived while Jasper's mum was examining the Bag Bed.

"This is the empty one?"

"Storage," Jasper said.

Harper came through the door carrying three bags at once.

"Temporary national archive."

Her mother followed.

"Harper Vale, you were told to let your father carry one."

"I can carry three."

"That was not the instruction."

Jasper's mother looked at Jasper.

"Yes," he said. "She's always like this."

Harper stared.

"Betrayal in front of family."

Ava arrived with her parents ten minutes later. Her father shook Jasper's hand very seriously. Her mother looked at the labelled shelves and said, "Ava, I can tell which side is yours." Ava frowned.

"How?"

Everyone laughed. For the first hour, the parents talked mostly to their own children. Then something shifted. Jasper's mother asked Harper about the handball trophy. Harper's father asked Ava about the safety hooks. Ava's mother wanted to see Jasper's tiny lift model because Soren's design had appeared in one of his letters. The stories had crossed households without the children realizing. Their friendship already existed in kitchens hundreds of kilometres apart as names repeated over dinner. That was strange and comforting. The academy ran tours for families. Jasper volunteered to lead theirs despite Harper claiming he had "tour-guide posture." They visited Foundations Hall. The library. The protected observation courtyard. Not the ledge where Harper fell. Nobody asked.

At the lower harbour viewing gallery, Jasper's mother stopped beside the glass. The repaired tide gate stood below. New reinforcement lines crossed the breakwater.

"That's where the storm was?"

"Yeah."

She looked at him. Not the gate.

"And you were in the shelter."

"Yeah. Mostly."

"Mostly?"

Jasper winced. His father looked interested in the ceiling.

"The bridge staff were still outside," Jasper explained. "I didn't go onto the bridge. I just... told the Sea they were there."

His mother was quiet.

"And it listened."

"It waited. I think."

"Because you asked?"

"Maybe. It chose."

That answer mattered to her.

"Good."

Jasper frowned.

"Good?"

"Good that you remember it wasn't your job to control a storm."

He leaned against the gallery rail.

"I know."

"Do you?"

"Mostly."

She smiled.

"That's more believable."

Harper's parents joined them. For a moment Jasper worried the conversation would turn toward Harper's fall. It did. But not how he expected. Harper's mother looked through the harbour glass.

"She told us the water moved."

Jasper glanced at Harper. Harper shrugged.

"Eventually."

Her father said, "She also told us you grabbed her the first time she slipped earlier in the year."

"That wasn't the big fall."

"We know."

He looked at Jasper.

"Thank you anyway."

Jasper felt awkward.

"I just... she was there."

"That's usually when helping happens."

Harper made a face.

"Can we stop making me a rescue documentary?"

Her mother touched her shoulder.

"Yes."

Simple. No argument. They moved on. At lunch, all three families sat together. This created chaos. Parents compared the versions of stories their children had told. The handball window incident gained new details. Ava discovered Harper had described her first-week sock labels in a letter home.

"Why would you tell your mother about my socks?"

"They were memorable."

Jasper discovered his mother had told his father about the jam homesickness moment after promising not to.

"I live there too," his father said.

"Privacy."

"Fair. Sorry."

That apology arrived without drama. Ava noticed. Jasper knew because Ava noticed apologies like weather instruments noticed pressure. In the afternoon, families attended an Order information session. This one was designed for adults. It focused on practical differences. Residence areas. Mentoring. Shared responsibilities. Order-specific traditions. What did not change. Classes remained mixed. Friends could visit other Order common spaces during open hours. Meals stayed shared. No Order had academic advantages. No Order was considered better. Jasper's mother raised her hand.

"If children are unhappy with placement?"

The staff member nodded.

"We support adjustment. In exceptional cases, placement can be reviewed, but we do not treat first disappointment as proof the ritual failed."

Harper whispered, "So technically appealable." Ava whispered back, "Do not plan a legal case before being placed."

"No promises."

At sunset, families were allowed onto the upper west terrace. The Sea spread gold below. Jasper stood between his parents. Water was there. Quiet. He wondered whether it noticed them. Then decided that question belonged to Water. His father said, "Beautiful place." His mother said, "Terrifying place."

"Both," Jasper replied.

She squeezed his shoulder.

"That sounds right."

When families left Sunday afternoon, Room Fourteen felt suddenly enormous. Harper sat on her bed.

"Your mum is scary."

Jasper stared.

"Your mum told you to put sunscreen on while you were already wearing sunscreen."

"Exactly. Scary recognizes scary."

Ava lay back on her pillow.

"My parents like both of you."

Harper gasped.

"Even me?"

"Against expectation."

Jasper laughed. The room settled around them. Three weeks had become ten days. Choosing Tide waited at the end. But now their families had seen the basin model. Seen the school. Seen them together. The future felt less like a door closing. More like several doors opening at once.