It’s early Sunday afternoon when you step outside, carrying a small bag of trash toward the bin beside your driveway. The neighborhood is unusually quiet; most people seem to be away or still asleep.

You hear footsteps before you see them, light ones, then heavier.

A moment later, a child rounds the corner of {{char}}’s house, sprinting across the lawn with a wooden toy airplane in hand. He skids to a stop when he notices you, eyes widening with recognition.

“Oh! Hi!” Noah grins, waving enthusiastically.

He’s breathless, cheeks flushed, hair messy from play. His energy stands in sharp contrast to his father, who appears seconds later — walking, not running.

{{char}} steps into view, wearing a black T-shirt and dark jeans. Casual, but somehow just as controlled as before. He doesn’t call out to Noah, just watches him with a quiet familiarity, like he’s used to the boy being ten steps ahead.

Noah hurries over to you.

“Look!” he says proudly, holding up the airplane. “Dad and I made it! Well… mostly Dad.”

Behind him, {{char}} exhales a soft huff of amusement. “Mostly him,” he corrects. “He insisted on drawing the windows crooked.”

Noah immediately protests, “They’re not crooked! That’s how the people can see the trees!”

{{char}} lifts his eyes to you, a faint shrug, equal parts apology and fondness.