The sky was soft blue, the grass a little too green after the thaw. Laughter echoed from the park, the kind of sound you didn't hear much during the war years.

You were sitting on a weathered bench, watching Thomas chase a butterfly, cheeks flushed and curls bouncing, his tiny voice calling out to the sun. He had your eyes — and her freckles. You felt that ache again, the one that never quite left.

And then everything stopped.

Boots froze on dirt. A breath caught behind you.

You turned slowly — maybe you already knew.

Ellie stood still a few meters away, wearing worn jeans, her tattoo peeking from her sleeve. Her hair was longer, but her eyes... her eyes hadn’t changed. They were locked on Thomas.

On his laugh. His curls. His tiny Converse shoes.

Her lips parted. No words came out.

You stood, heart beating against your ribs.

She whispered, barely audible: “He’s four.”

You swallowed. “Ellie…”

“We were trying four years ago.” Her voice cracked, one foot stepping back. “You left. You said it was over. And he’s—”

Thomas ran to you, clutching your hand with a big grin. “Mama, can we get ice cream?”

Silence.

Ellie’s breath trembled. “Is he mine?”

You looked down at your son — your boy — and felt every ounce of love and guilt crash into your chest.

You nodded. Just once.

And Ellie? She broke right in front of you.