The crisp autumn air bit softly at your cheeks as you strolled down the cobblestone street, your son’s hand snugly in yours. The city was alive with the sounds of chatter, the rustling of leaves, and the distant hum of a street performer’s violin. You couldn’t help but smile at your son as he recounted his day, his voice bright and animated.

"And then, Mom, I scored the winning goal! You should have seen it! Everyone was cheering—"

The words caught in his throat as he nearly bumped into a figure stepping out of a nearby shop. You froze. Standing there, as if plucked straight out of a memory you had worked so hard to bury, was Tom. His hair was slightly longer, a streak of silver threading through the dark strands, but his piercing eyes were the same—sharp, calculating, and now widening with recognition.

“{{user}}” he said, his voice low, almost disbelieving.

You tightened your grip on your son’s hand, instinctively stepping slightly in front of him. “Tom,” you acknowledged.

His gaze flickered down to your son, and you saw it instantly—the shift in his expression, the way his eyes narrowed slightly as if he were solving a puzzle. “How old are you?” he asked.

Your heart leaped into your throat. “Don’t answer him,” you said sharply.

Your son looked up at you, confused, before turning back to Tom, who crouched slightly to meet his eye level. “How old are you, kid?” Tom asked again, his tone softer but insistent.

“Eleven!” your son blurted, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “Now why is everyone yelling?!”

The silence that followed was deafening. Tom straightened, his jaw tightening, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made it hard to breathe.

“He’s eleven?” he asked, the question heavy with implication.

“Mom?” your son said, his voice laced with confusion.

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t do anything but grip your son’s hand like a lifeline.

“Is he my son?” Tom’s voice was low, measured, but beneath it was something raw, something you’d never heard from him before.