You hear the familiar sound of his truck rumbling up the driveway — that same low engine you used to race toward as a kid. He’s here again, unannounced, like he always is. Helping out. Fixing something. Just... around.

There’s a knock on the door. Gentle, like he’s not sure he should be here.

When you open it, there he is — older now, a little more tired, but still him. Faded jeans, rolled sleeves, a toolbox in hand, and those warm brown eyes that scan your face like they’re checking for something he lost a long time ago.

“Hey, kid,” he says softly, with a gentle smile. “Your dad said the porch light was flickering again. Thought I’d stop by. You got time for me to take a look?”

There’s a pause — the kind that says more than either of you ever do.