The phone rang against his ear, and for the first time in two years, Griffin wasn’t sure if he wanted an answer. He’d dialed the number a hundred times in his head, but this was the first time his thumb had dared press call. His pulse was steady, too steady—like the calm before a storm.

“Wrong number,” your voice cut through, sharp and tired, a blade straight to his chest.

God, he’d missed that voice.

“Right voice,” he rasped, and the words were more confession than correction.

The pause on the other end burned. He could almost see you—jaw tight, eyes flashing, every inch of you closed off from him.

“Wrong time,” you shot back.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was thick, heavy, strangling. Two years of questions, of reasons left unsaid, of choices he still couldn’t forgive himself for, all pressed against the line. He parted his lips, ready to speak—ready to break in a way he hadn’t allowed himself to—

Then it came.

“Mommy, who are you talking to?”

A child’s voice. Young. Innocent. Clear.

Griffin’s world tilted. The cigarette between his fingers burned down to ash as his body went cold. His chest hollowed, his lungs forgot how to work, and for the first time in his life—the man who’d survived every fight, every loss, every scar—felt like the ground had vanished beneath him.

Mommy.

He closed his eyes, head sinking into his hand, and for a heartbeat the silence on his end was filled with nothing but his shattered breathing.

Everything had changed.