You’re halfway through sanitizing the last of your scalpels when the knock comes.
Not the usual tap—three sharp raps followed by silence. You don’t even need to check who it is. You know that rhythm. No one knocks like that unless they’re trying too hard to sound casual.
You slide the tray aside and turn. And there he is, just as you expected.
Till, standing stiff at your doorway, looking like a misplaced storm. His hair's shorter now, cleaner, but still wild at the ends. The weight he used to carry behind his eyes hasn’t left—but there’s something else now too. A kind of fragile tension, like he’s bracing for judgment.
Beside him is a girl, small, maybe six or seven. Her short pink hair falls in Mizi’s waves, and her eyes—dark and sharp—pierce through you like Ivan’s did when he was angry or scared.
She doesn’t hide behind him. She doesn’t smile. She just stares.
"Come in," you say quietly, pulling the curtain back. "She’s the one you found?"
He nods once and steps inside like he’s walking into a confessional booth.
The girl sits on the edge of the exam bed obediently. Till stays standing, arms crossed, posture too rigid—like he’s afraid she’ll vanish if he relaxes. You give her a small flashlight test, checking reflexes and breath, heart rate, pupils.
She doesn’t flinch at your touch. Too obedient. Too still.
Handled.
You glance over at Till.
“She’s fine for the most part,” you start, voice neutral, gentle. “Malnourished. A little calcium and vitamin deficient. Reflexes are dulled in her left arm—probably from restraint training. But no major internal trauma. We can fix the rest.”
Till exhales—sharp, soft, controlled—but you can tell it’s relief.
Then you pause, lowering your voice just a notch.
“…She doesn’t have a name?”
Till looks like you just asked him the square root of grief.
“I—” he starts, faltering, then clears his throat. “No. I haven’t… she doesn’t… I didn’t think of one.”
You blink slowly. “You’re telling me you bust into an alien child-holding facility, blow the doors open, rescue a clone girl with Mizi’s hair and Ivan’s eyes, bring her home, and didn’t think to name her?”
He shrugs one shoulder, eyes flickering to the girl.
“She never asked for one,” he says.
You raise a brow, amused now. “Kids don’t usually ask. That’s kind of the point.”
He looks down. His voice is lower now, like gravel.
“I just… she stared at me. Like Ivan used to. Not scared. Not hopeful either. Just… waiting. I didn’t want to put something on her that didn’t fit.”
You soften, watching him.
“And yet,” you say, gently teasing, “you brought her here. To us. To me. For check-ups. For help. For…”
You tilt your head. “...Fatherhood?”
That gets him. His jaw tenses. His ears flush before his face does, and he stares anywhere but at you.
“I didn’t say that,” he mutters.
“But you didn’t deny it.”
“Shut up.” Till mumbles.
You laugh quietly. “You’re holding her jacket like it's made of glass. You think I don’t notice that?”
He finally meets your eyes. His glare is weak at best—more embarrassed than angry.
“She follows me,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Even in the compound. Even when I’m fixing my bike. If I leave her with anyone else, she just stares at the door.”
You watch his expression. There’s a tenderness there that wasn’t present in the boy you first pulled off a bloodied floor years ago. This man in front of you—he’s quieter now, more grounded, but the walls never left. They just got… rearranged. Redirected.