“You sure?”
He shifts. Shrugs. “He looked like me.”
The words hit like a silent bomb. No drama. Just truth dropped into the center of the room like a weight.
I turn away from the window.
“He did,” I admit. “I noticed too.”
“Is he my dad?”
It’s not even a question. Not really. Just a confirmation of something his instincts already told him.
I sit slowly on the edge of the couch.
“Yes.”
He doesn't react. No gasp. No tears. Just blinks. Then turns the tablet off.
“I knew it.”
“How?”
He looks at me with those storm-colored eyes I used to convince myself came from some ancestor I’d never met. But the truth was always sitting there—just waiting to be named.
“He walks like me,” he says. “And his voice… felt familiar. Like music I forgot.”
I swallow hard.
Pyramus shifts closer and rests his head on my arm. “Did he leave because of me?”
“No,” I say instantly. “He didn’t even know.”
“Would he have stayed if he did?”
And that... that’s the question that tears something open in my chest.
“I don’t know,” I whisper.
He’s quiet for a while. Then, “Do I get to see him?”
The words are soft. Not demanding. Not hopeful. Just... curious.
“Maybe,” I say. “But only whenyouwant to. Not before. You’re allowed to take your time.”
He nods.
And I can see the swirl of emotion under that calm surface. Confusion. Fury. Fascination. He doesn’t know what to do with any of it—and neither do I.
I run my hand through his hair, slow and steady. Like I used to when he was too young to form words but still dreamed of fire.
He leans into it.
But the moment is fragile.
“I saw the way he looked at you,” he says suddenly.
I freeze.
