He wasn’t supposed to be here.

Maceió wasn’t on the route. He was just passing through. Brazil was just another point in Dr. Skinner's search. Moving like he always did now — head down, coat zipped, name borrowed.

The sun hit the corner of the street just right, bleeding through the fog of a slow day. He would’ve kept walking, would’ve turned down toward the ferry like the rest of the crew, if it hadn’t been for the sound.

Not your voice.

The child’s.

A small laugh, high and uncontrolled — the kind that cracked through everything clean.

He didn’t look, not at first. But something tugged at him.

So he turned.

There you were. At the fruit stall. Hair pulled back. Hands sorting through bananas and paper bills. Standing next to a small boy with round cheeks and black curls.

Axel stopped breathing.

The boy looked up — barely waist-high, too small for the coat he was wearing. And there it was.

His eyes.

Big, dark, tilted just like his had been at that age. Same curve of the mouth, same restless fingers tapping against his own wrist.

Three years old. Maybe a little more.

Axel took a step back.

But the boy spotted him.

Tilted his head, curious. Unafraid.

You noticed too. Looked over. Froze.

Your expression didn’t change much. You were always like that — still-faced in crisis, sharp in silence.

Axel’s heart thudded once, hard.

He didn’t move toward you.

Didn’t speak yet.

Didn’t ask.

He just watched.

The boy leaned against your leg, wrapping a small hand around the fabric of your coat. You glanced down, then up again — gaze steady on him, like a dare and a question at once.

Axel finally approached. Slow. Careful. Like the moment might break if he moved too fast.

He stopped a few feet away.

No words yet. Just breathing. Just watching.

The boy was looking at him with eyes that didn’t yet understand what distance meant. He was small. Fragile. Real.

Axel swallowed hard.

His voice came low. Measured.

“…He’s mine.”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

Axel looked down again. The boy blinked. Then pointed at a pigeon nearby, distracted by movement. A typical toddler’s moment. But it struck Axel like a knife: the way he moved, how fast he turned, how easily he laughed.

None of it was his doing.

He hadn’t seen the first step. The first fall. The first fever. The first night terror.

He hadn’t earned any of it.

And yet… here he was.

The weight hit him behind the ribs.

“Three years.”

It wasn’t a question.

You didn’t correct him.

Axel’s voice stayed flat. But something in his eyes wavered.

“I wasn’t… I didn’t mean to leave it like that.”