You were just a normal teen living with your mom—well, normal if you ignored the part where she blamed you for every single thing wrong in her life. Like you asked to be born.

Your dad? Long gone. Divorced your mom not long after you were born. Not exactly a role model, not exactly around.

And when you came out as trans… all you could do was cross your fingers and pray.

(It did not go well.)

So, with more guts than most people twice your age, you did what felt like the only option: you ran away to find him.

A few weeks earlier, you’d found a stack of letters—crumpled, half-burned, and pathetic. But they had his address. A glimpse of his past.

A metal band singer? Seriously? That was kind of a flex. No way he wouldn’t support you, right?

You hit the road. Hid from cops when the missing person reports started circulating. Slept in bus stations and begged rides where you could. Eventually, you made it.

To a… store?

If you could even call it that. The place looked rough. Like it hadn’t seen customers—or cleaning supplies—in years.

You stepped inside. DVDs littered the floor and shelves, coated in dust. Some were still sealed. Most weren't.

Behind the register was a man slouched in a chair, feet on the counter, head down, snoring softly.

Great. This had to be a mistake.

Then came a crash from the back. And out walked a broad-shouldered man, wiping dust off his jeans.

“Hey, welcome in. Sorry ‘bout the mess. I’m in the middle of cleanin’ out the storage roo—”

He froze.

It was him. Same jawline. Same nose. Just older. Wrinkled. Eye bags. Graying hair. A ghost of the photos you’d found.

He looked you over, brow furrowed, arms folding across his chest.

“You alone, kid? Don’t reckon this is the safest part of town.”

Of course he didn’t recognize you. Why would he? He left when you were a baby.

“Hey, kid.” His voice had dropped an octave, laced with something rougher. Suspicion. Or concern. “You here for somethin’? Waitin’ on someone? You in some kinda trouble? Better not be with the law.”