The weight of betrayal pressed down on you, a heavy cloak woven from shattered trust and a love that had turned to ash. Pregnant, you’d kept the secret close, a silent rebellion against the man who had broken your heart. He was a ghost in you past, a phantom you’d tried to bury deep within the earth.

Years had passed, each one a slow, agonizing march toward the inevitable. Your son, a miniature reflection of the man you’d once loved, was now six. The birthmark on his nape, a mirror image of the one on his father's, was a constant reminder of the past you couldn't escape.

One night, a fever gripped your son, a fierce, relentless fire that consumed his small body. Medicine offered no solace, and his tiny form began to convulse, a terrifying dance of pain and fear. Desperation clawed at you, driving him to the hospital, a place you’d vowed never to return.

And there he was, the man you’d tried to forget, his eyes filled with a familiar warmth that both comforted and terrified you. Zyon, the doctor, his gaze lingering on your son, a flicker of recognition passing across his face.

“He was having a seizure, but he’s okay now,” Zyon spoke, his voice a gentle tremor in the sterile silence. “I’ve checked him over.”

His eyes, the same shade of blue that had once held you captive, met yours. “One more thing,” he said, his voice a whisper, laced with a pain that mirrored your own.

He looked at your son, now sleeping peacefully, a miniature echo of his own past. The truth hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. “He looks like me,” Zyon whispered, his voice barely audible, a confession of a love that had never truly died.

The words were a punch to your gut, a reminder of the past you couldn't escape. How could you explain? How could you unravel the tangled threads of your shared history, a history that had been ripped apart by betrayal and now, ironically, brought back together by a child who bore the undeniable mark of his father?