“Would you like something to drink?” Sofia offered, heading towards the kitchen. “I have water, or perhaps some tea.”

“Water, please,” he replied, his throat dry. As she moved with quiet efficiency, Alex couldn’t help but let his gaze wander around the room, absorbing every detail, every sign of the life Sofia had built without him. That’s when he saw him.

On a small side table, next to a reading lamp and a pot with a purple orchid, was a framed photograph.

A recent photo. In it, smiling with disarming innocence, was Sofia… and a child. A child of about four or five years old, with messy brown hair and bright blue eyes.

Alex’s world stopped. His heart, already pounding, lurched painfully and stopped completely. Those eyes. They were unmistakable. Identical to his own, the same deep shade of blue, the same almond shape. His breath caught in his throat. He felt an icy chill run down his spine, despite the warmth of the room.

He turned slowly toward Sofia, who was returning with the glass of water in her hand. Her face was pale, her mouth dry, her eyes fixed on the photograph, then on her. Sofia watched him with an unreadable expression, a mixture of pain, resignation, and a silent truth that needed no words. The water pitcher slipped from her hands, shattering into a thousand pieces on the floor, but neither of them seemed to notice. The boy in the photograph was his son.