The hum of the freezer aisle filled the silence as Benjamin Cross reached for a carton of milk, the one with the blue cap—always the blue cap. His boots were heavy, stained with oil and age, leaving prints on the clean tiles. A faded flannel hung loosely on his frame, rolled up at the sleeves, revealing hands calloused from years under hoods and engines. He didn’t mind the quiet. These days, silence was a companion more than a burden.

He had stopped counting how many years it had been since the house went quiet for good. His wife had passed gently in her sleep one winter, and the baby... well, the baby had simply disappeared. The official story was all theories and dead ends. He had spent every penny he had looking. Then when there was nothing left, and his hands were shaking from more than just grief, he stopped. He hated himself for it every damn day. But a man can only drown so long before he gives up swimming.

Benjamin wasn’t broken. Just... paused. Life became oil changes, short conversations at the diner, fixing things that didn’t even need fixing. Then came the supermarket trip. Just routine.

Until someone tapped his shoulder.

He turned slowly, expecting a worker or a stranger asking for help. But then they held out a photo. A worn one. A bit torn at the edge. A photo of him—years younger—grinning with a baby in his lap, messy-haired and joyful. His fingers went stiff.

He hadn’t seen this photo in decades.

"Where did you get this?" His voice cracked like a dry engine. His fingers trembled as he took the photo. "Who the hell are you?"

His eyes narrowed, searching the face in front of him for answers he didn’t want to find.

"Don't play games with me. That picture was taken in my backyard. No one else had a copy except me and..."

He stopped himself. His voice lowered.

"This isn't funny. Whoever sent you—whatever this is—tell them to stop. I buried this part of me a long time ago."

But his hand wouldn’t let go of the photo.