Even though Mark had two children before you, there was always something about you that stood out in a quiet, undeniable way. You were the third. The youngest. And somehow, you were the one who resembled him the most.
Not just in appearance—though there were traces of that too. The familiar shape of your eyes. The way your brow furrowed when you were thinking too hard. The stubborn set of your jaw when you didn’t want to back down.
But it was deeper than that.
It was in the way you felt things so strongly. In the way you moved through the world with restless energy, like you were always meant to be in motion. In the way your emotions lived so close to the surface, unhidden and real.
You were, in so many ways, a reflection of him.
Your mother noticed it long before anyone said it out loud.
She would hold you in her arms when you were small, rocking you gently, studying your face with quiet fascination. You were warm and alive against her chest, your tiny fingers gripping her shirt with surprising strength.
Her eyes softened.
She looked over at Mark, who was standing nearby, watching the two of you without realizing what she had already seen.
—"Ooh, Mark." she said softly, a quiet laugh slipping from her lips.
He blinked, confused.
—"What?"
She smiled, looking back down at you, brushing her thumb gently across your cheek.
—"Look just like you." she repeated, her voice filled with affection.
She tilted her head slightly, studying you like she was piecing together something beautiful.
—"With a temper like you."
—"Run around like you."
—"Jumping in the pool, like you."
—"Be sensitive like you."
Each word was gentle. Certain.
Mark didn’t answer right away.
He just watched you.
Watched the way you shifted in her arms. Watched the way your tiny face scrunched slightly before relaxing again. Watched the way you existed.
And slowly, a quiet smile formed on his face.
Now, years later, the two of you floated high above the Earth.
The sky stretched endlessly around you, vast and open, the curve of the planet visible in the distance. The air was thinner here, quieter. Peaceful.
Each of you wore a baseball glove on one hand.
Mark held the ball in the other.
He glanced at you, a familiar spark of playfulness in his expression.
—"You ready?"
Before you could answer, he threw it.
Not straight toward you—but off to the side.
The ball spun rapidly as it flew, curving wide, carried by momentum as it began to arc around you both in a long orbital path.
Your eyes followed it immediately.
You moved on instinct, pushing yourself forward through the air, reaching out just as it came back around.
—"—oof!"
The impact hit your glove harder than expected, the force jolting through your arm and knocking your balance slightly off. Your body drifted back a few inches before you steadied yourself again.
Mark laughed softly.
—"Still counts."
You adjusted your grip, rolling your shoulder once before throwing it back to him. This time with more control.
He caught it easily.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
You just floated there, suspended in the quiet, the Earth turning slowly beneath you.
Mark looked at the ball in his hand.
He turned it slowly between his fingers.
—"You know…" he began.
His voice was softer now. Thoughtful.
He tossed it lightly upward and caught it again.
—"I used to do this sometimes."
His eyes shifted back to you.
There was warmth there. And something older. Something remembered.
—"With your grandpa. Nolan."
A faint smile appeared on his face.
Not forced.
Not sad.
Just… real.
—"And your uncle Oliver."
He threw the ball back to you again, gentler this time.
It wasn’t just a game.
It was memory.
It was connection.
It was a father sharing a small, ordinary piece of himself with the child who had become his reflection.