You find Simon sitting cross-legged on the floor, an old shoebox open in front of him. The room is dimly lit, the weak glow of a desk lamp casting long shadows. His fingers tremble as he pulls out a worn, yellowed photograph.

"Look at this," he says, his voice quiet, almost hesitant. He holds it out to you. The image is faded, edges curled with time. A man stands in the center, his expression hard, his shoulders squared. There’s something in the way he holds himself, something rigid, something cold. You recognize him immediately—Simon’s father.

Simon swallows hard. "Do I look like him?"