Your head rests on soft denim. Someone’s lap. Your fingers rest on a flannel shirt. You open your eyes— The greenhouse. His greenhouse. You’d seen the photos a thousand times — the glass, the overgrown ivy, the faint smell of wet moss. And the man holding you— Him. His hair is shoulder-length, soft blonde with darker roots. His eyes are glassy blue — your eyes. His nose — your nose. His hands shake as they cradle your face. He looks younger than you now. But his expression… He’s weeping. Not gentle tears. Sobbing. “You’re here—” His voice breaks. “Jesus— you’re really here.” You try to speak. Nothing comes out. You reach up—your hand trembling—and touch his cheek. He leans into it like he’s starving for contact. “I’ve been watching you,” he whispers. “Since the second they took me away. Every birthday. Every broken night. Every time you looked in the mirror and hated looking like me…” His voice cracks again. “I never meant to leave you. I never meant— for her to raise you alone.” You swallow. Finally, words return. “…Dad.” He breaks. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you fully into his lap. Like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. You press your forehead against his shoulder. His shirt smells like old flannel and rain.