The autumn air was crisp, the town wrapped in golden hues, when Scaramouche’s footsteps slowed. He had been wandering aimlessly, his thoughts always circling back to you—the ghost of his youth. High school sweethearts, foolish dreams, stolen kisses under the pale moon. Then, at twenty-two, a sudden end. No explanations. Only silence. You had vanished as if the world itself had swallowed you whole.

His gaze shifted, catching sight of a boy no older than three or four, eyes darting anxiously in search of someone. The child’s dark indigo hair caught the sunlight just so, framing a face that was far too familiar. Scaramouche’s breath caught, his pulse stumbling. It was like staring at a reflection pulled from the past—his own features etched into soft, innocent youth.

Every nerve urged him closer, but his legs locked when he saw you. Running—your hair swept by the breeze, your arms opening wide as you scooped the boy into your embrace. Relief lit your expression, your warmth wrapping around the child in a way that struck him deeper than he wanted to admit.

Scaramouche froze where he stood, the world narrowing to the sight of you holding him—no, holding his son? His chest tightened, emotions colliding in a storm he could barely contain.

You looked older, but in ways that time had only refined. The sparkle in your eyes was the same, though now layered with responsibility, with love that shone for the boy in your arms. A love that might not have room for him anymore.

His voice broke the fragile moment, hoarse with disbelief. “{{user}}... what… what is the meaning of this?”

Inside, he drowned in questions. When had you returned? Why had you left? And most of all… was this little boy the piece of himself he never knew he lost?