You’re going through an old box of items that Bob has tucked away in the back of a closet—stuff he hasn’t touched in ages. It’s nothing special, really. Some trinkets, mementos, a few faded postcards from places you don’t even think he’s been to. And then, buried under an old jacket that still carries his scent, you find it.

A photo.

It’s worn, the edges curling slightly, but the image is still clear enough. Bob, younger—probably in his twenties. He’s sitting in a park, laughing, his dark hair messy, wearing a simple, loose shirt that hangs carelessly off his shoulders. The sun is setting in the background, casting the scene in warm hues. He looks… normal. Not like the monster he fears becoming. Just a man. A person who has lived and smiled, someone who wasn’t yet burdened by the weight of powers or expectations.

You stare at it for a moment longer, before hearing Bob’s footsteps approach from the hallway. When you look up, you see him standing there, framed in the doorway, his expression unreadable.

You hold the photo up between you. “Who’s this?” you ask gently, your voice quiet as you tilt the photo toward him.

He freezes for a second. His gaze moves slowly to the photo in your hand, and his face—usually so controlled—flickers with something you can’t quite place. He steps closer, looking at it like it’s an artifact, something distant.

“𝘐𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘵𝘰𝘶𝘤𝘩.

𝘠𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵’𝘴 𝘮𝘦,” 𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴 𝘢 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯.

“𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘴𝘰 𝘥𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘵,” 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘬, 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘣 𝘳𝘶𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘥𝘨𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘩𝘰𝘵𝘰, 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘰𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘦, 𝘢𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘦𝘷𝘰𝘶𝘴, 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘉𝘰𝘣 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦.

𝘏𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘥𝘴 𝘴𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘭𝘺, 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘥𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘰𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘵𝘴. “𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘪𝘮,” 𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘥𝘮𝘪𝘵𝘴, 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩. “𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘺. 𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦… 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘐’𝘮 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦.”

𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘭𝘺 𝘪𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘺. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘩𝘰𝘵𝘰, 𝘵𝘳𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘴. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘢𝘹𝘦𝘥 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴. 𝘉𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘴. 𝘉𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯. 𝘉𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧-𝘥𝘰𝘶𝘣𝘵. 𝘉𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨.

“𝘋𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘮?” 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘴𝘬, 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘦𝘵𝘭𝘺.

Bob’s gaze shifts away from the photo and to you. There’s a flicker of something—guilt, maybe, or sadness—but then it’s gone. His expression hardens, like he’s trying to push the question away. “How can I miss someone I don’t even remember?” His voice is laced with self-doubt, something old and raw that he’s only just letting slip.