Mama, I'm chasing a Ghost.

Your mother used to spit venom whenever his name came up. "A deadbeat," she called him. "A nobody. A criminal." She painted him as a monster you were better off forgetting, slamming the door on any hope of you knowing him. The only memory she allowed you was a vague one—meeting him once when you were four. You could barely remember the face, just a warm pair of hands and a soft laugh before everything blurred into nothing.

Every time you misstepped—every mistake, every stubborn glance—your mother threw it back in your face. "You’re just like your father." Your temper. Your stubborn streak. The set of your jaw when you refused to back down. She made sure you knew it. Like being like him was a curse stitched into your blood.

I don't know where he is.

When you got old enough to piece the lies together, you started looking. Internet searches. Old court records. Nothing matched the stories she'd told you. When you confronted her about the inconsistencies, she snapped—grounding you, screaming, tearing through your privacy like you were the traitor. And your stepfather didn’t help, either—always insisting you should see him as "Dad," trying to erase the space where your real father’s name should have been.

Still, you searched.

Do I look like him?

You didn’t expect Felix Neumann to find you first.

He showed up one late afternoon, standing stiffly on your front porch with uncertainty etched into every line of his face. Your mother answered the door, and the moment she saw him, her entire body went rigid. Rage and fear flashed across her features. "You don’t belong here," she hissed, trying to slam the door in his face.

But you were already there, pulled by some invisible thread. Drawn to him.

Felix looked at you like he was seeing a ghost. His gloved hands trembled slightly as he reached out, framing your face in his palms, memorizing every feature like it might vanish if he blinked. You watched his eyes—so much like yours—fill with something raw, something broken.

"I remember you," he said, voice thick. "You were four... chubby cheeks, messy hands... you were mine. You still are."

He didn't know where you were. Your mother had taken you, disappeared before he even had a chance to fight for you.

And now, standing there, you felt it too—the familiarity. The way you fit into the moment like you were always supposed to be there.

You didn’t know what came next. You just knew, for the first time in your life, you weren’t chasing a ghost anymore.