It returned in fragments.
The sound of wind. The faint crackle of candles. Someone whispering in the distance.
But all the man could see… was the photograph.
A younger version of himself stared back at him. Standing beside a woman with gentle eyes. She was holding a baby.
The same baby now standing in front of him.
His hands shook harder.
“No…” he muttered under his breath. “No, this isn’t—”
“It is,” the boy said quietly.
The man looked up.
Really looked at him this time.
The eyes. The shape of his face. The way he stood.
It hit him all at once.
Not like a memory.
Like a punishment.
“I thought you died…” the man whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of it.
The boy’s expression didn’t change.
“She didn’t,” he said. “She waited.”
Each word landed harder than the last.
“She waited for you to come back. Every day.”
The man’s chest tightened. His breathing became uneven.
“I—I didn’t know…” he tried to say, but the excuse sounded empty even to him.
The boy stepped closer.
The luxury around them—the elegant tables, the watching guests—felt meaningless now.
“She got sick,” the boy continued. “And even then… she said you’d come.”
Silence.
The kind that presses in from all sides.
The man swallowed hard, his eyes beginning to glisten.
“Where is she?” he asked, almost afraid of the answer.
The boy hesitated.
For the first time, his voice faltered.
“At the hospital,” he said. “She doesn’t have much time.”
The words shattered whatever was left of the man’s composure.
He stood up so suddenly his chair fell backward.
“I—I have money,” he said quickly, almost desperately. “I can help. I can fix this—”
The boy shook his head.
“You can’t fix time.”
That hit harder than anything.
The man stepped closer, his voice breaking completely now.
“Please… take me to her.”
The boy studied him for a long moment.
As if deciding whether he deserved it.
Then finally—
He nodded.
But there was no relief in his eyes.
Only something quieter.
Something heavier.
“Don’t be late again,” he said.
And this time…
The man didn’t argue.
