The newspaper trembles faintly between Karl’s fingers, the thin pages crinkling louder than they should in the quiet of the café. His coffee has gone untouched, a dark, cooling mirror beside his hand. He doesn’t notice.

His eyes stay fixed on the photo.

There—{{user}}, older now. Not the teenager he forced out, not the angry, tearful face burned into his memory, but someone steadier. Stronger. There’s a softness there too, something earned the hard way. And beside them—

Karl’s breath stutters.

The boy.

Small hands clutching a ribbon, a crooked, proud smile aimed up at {{user}}. The resemblance hits like a blow to the chest—sharp jaw, familiar eyes, that same stubborn set to his mouth.

Arthur.

His grandson.

Karl’s thumb presses hard into the edge of the page as if he could anchor himself to it. His shoulders hunch inward, broad frame folding in on itself. He looks smaller like this. Older.

“God…” The word slips out, rough, barely there. His voice doesn’t sound like his own.

He drags a hand over his face, fingers catching in his hair, tugging like he’s trying to wake himself up from something cruel. But the image doesn’t change. The headline doesn’t blur.

Local Boy Wins Art Competition.

A humorless breath escapes him, almost a laugh, almost a sob. “Of course you did,” he murmurs, gaze locked on the boy. “Course you’re talented.”

His knee starts bouncing under the table, restless energy with nowhere to go. Regret sits heavy in his chest, thick and suffocating, spreading outward until it fills every space inside him.

He remembers shouting. Not the words—never the words—but the volume, the anger, the way it had felt righteous at the time. Protective. Like he was fixing something before it could break further.

His jaw tightens.

“Sixteen,” he mutters, voice low, bitter. “You were sixteen.”

The same age he had been.

Karl’s grip on the paper tightens until it creases. His gaze flickers back to {{user}} in the photo—how close they stand to the boy, how their body angles protectively, instinctively. The kind of closeness that doesn’t come easy.

That he threw away.

“They came back,” he says under his breath, shaking his head slowly. “You came back.”

Nine months. Calls. Messages. Attempts he ignored. Doors he never opened.

His chest rises sharply, then falls, uneven.

“I didn’t even…” His voice falters. He swallows hard, staring down at Arthur’s name printed in ink like something permanent, something undeniable. “Didn’t even give you a chance.”

Silence presses in around him, thick as the regret settling deeper into his bones.

Karl leans forward, elbows braced against the table, one hand covering his mouth as he exhales shakily. His eyes don’t leave the page.

“That’s my grandson,” he whispers, something fragile threading through the words. Awe. Grief. Pride he doesn’t feel he’s earned.

His shoulders sag.

“And I don’t even know him.”

The admission lands heavy, final. He sits with it, unmoving, as if standing might shatter him completely.

After a long moment, his hand lowers, hovering over the photo without quite touching it.

“I’m sorry,” Karl says quietly, the words too late, too small, but all he has.