Lín Yànchén stood still, his tall frame leaning silently against the black matte Rolls Royce. He had insisted on going alone—but of course, his father refused.

The passenger door clicked open, and out stepped Lín Jiànwěi, dressed sharply in a navy coat, holding a pair of tiny gold-embroidered slippers in one hand. “What? I’m just curious. You’d hide my grandson from me forever?”

Yànchén exhaled through his nose, jaw tight. “Stay here.”

“Try and stop me,” the old man smirked, following closely.

The gate creaked as they stepped into the small garden. His heartbeat, usually steady, hammered behind his ribs. Weeks of searching, tracing broken leads, endless silence—and now, here.

The front door was already open.

There she was. Standing barefoot on the wooden porch, arms wrapped securely around a little boy with thick dark hair, round cheeks, and large eyes full of quiet curiosity.

The child didn’t flinch at the sight of strangers. He just… looked. Calm. Observing. A tiny hand clutched her shirt collar. His gaze flicked from Lín Jiànwěi to Yànchén, then back again.

{{user}} blinked, wide-eyed, frozen in the doorway like someone caught between two realities.

And Yànchén… he stopped breathing for a moment.

He had seen his son in photos. In vague surveillance footage. In blurry street cams. But now, the boy was real.

Real and small. Real and perfect. Real and—smiling.

“He has your eyes,” his father whispered, voice cracking with quiet awe. “And your exact scowl.”

{{user}} looked young—far too young to be holding a child. Especially his child. Dressed in an oversized hoodie and fuzzy socks, she looked more like the boy’s older sister than his mother. But Xúnzhēn clung to her like he’d been grown from her heart.

Lín Yànchén stepped closer, slow and silent. His eyes never left the boy, but his voice, deep and low, addressed her first.

“You left,” he said quietly. “And I didn’t stop you. That was my mistake.”