It had been a year.

One long, quiet year since Sae walked out and never looked back. No calls. No messages. Just the lingering ache of silence.

Until tonight.

A text. Short. Cold. “Can I get my things back?”

You stared at the screen, heart stilling. The things he gave you? Clothes, letters, little memories of a life that ended before it truly began? Or did he mean something else? Something he didn’t know about yet?

You didn’t reply right away. Instead, you turned your phone camera toward the living room, where your son sat—barely a year old, chubby cheeks flushed with joy, soft teal eyes identical to his father’s, dark hair messy as he giggled and clapped at his toy truck.

You snapped a photo and sent it back. No words. Just the truth.

Then, a follow-up text: “Even our baby?”

There was no reply. No dots to indicate he was typing. Just silence again.

Until the next day.

A knock on the door. Three times. Firm. Familiar.

You opened it to find Sae standing there, disheveled, breathless, eyes wide—not with shock, but with something heavier. Guilt. Wonder. Pain. Love. All mixed together and choking him.

His eyes darted past you when he heard the sound—soft giggling, plastic toys clattering, a little boy squealing with happiness.

He stepped in slowly. The living room was a storm of plush animals and colorful chaos. And in the middle of it, his son.

The boy looked up and blinked. Then smiled.

Sae dropped to his knees, frozen in place, watching him with parted lips. His voice cracked as he whispered, “…He looks just like me.”

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to.

Sae didn’t ask questions. He just reached out, as if trying to make up for a year in a single moment.

And when the baby giggled again and crawled into his arms without hesitation—Sae broke.

For the first time in a long time, the silence wasn’t empty. It was full of something real. Something new. Something his.