Mick stared at the door of the small house, gripping the steering wheel of his car. He had arrived a few minutes earlier but hadn’t dared to get out. His son his blood was inside. A boy of barely nine years who only half-knew of his existence, as if he were a distant legend and not a reality.

The singer swallowed hard, the weight of guilt and uncertainty making him hesitate. In his mind, he replayed the face of the boy he had seen a couple of times. Dark hair, a lively gaze, but one filled with questions he hadn’t had the courage to answer.

“It’s now or never,” he muttered to himself, adjusting his leather jacket. He opened the car door and walked to the entrance. He rang the doorbell with a trembling hand, wondering how he had let it come to this.

The door opened, and there he was. His son. Small but resolute, with an expression of curiosity and distrust. He had his mother’s eyes, but there was something in his stance that was undeniably his.

Mick crouched down to his height, trying to smile even though he felt a lump in his throat.

“Yes, I’m Mick,” he said, with an awkward attempt at warmth. “I’m... well, I’m your father.”

You stared at him, as if evaluating him.