Sylus Hawthorne had been calling out surnames all afternoon, his voice steady in the careful way kindergarten teachers learned to master.

The classroom was filled with the gentle chaos of children’s art—crooked suns, uneven letters, fingerprints dried into paint. Everything about the room spoke of beginnings.

He reached for the next folder.

He knew the surname before he fully registered it.

There had been a time when that name had lived easily with him—spoken in laughter, murmured in quieter hours, written once or twice without thinking about permanence. Now it sat neatly printed on a report card, paired with a child’s handwriting practice and gold stars.

Sylus hesitated.

Across the small table sat the woman who had once shared that name with him once in his life. Time had softened and sharpened her all at once. She met his eyes with a composure that felt learned, not natural, as though she, too, had prepared herself for this moment.

He cleared his throat and called the surname.

Professionally.

As if it did not echo.

The child was her daughter. Her laughter, her mannerisms—things Sylus noticed and never commented on—were reflected in small, unmistakable ways. He discussed progress, strengths, gentle areas for improvement, all while holding himself at a careful distance from the past pressing in on him.

When the meeting drew to a close, he gathered the papers and slid the report card across the table. His hand lingered a second longer than necessary. Then, quietly—too quietly for anyone else in the room to hear—Sylus spoke.

“She’s doing very well,” he said, his voice soft but sure. “You should be proud.”

What he didn't know... was that the little girl whose progress he praised shared more than a surname with him.