Eli's home stood at the edge of the river, its roof sagging slightly under the weight of years.The fence leaned inward, and the gate hung crooked on one hinge.When the boy pushed it open, the squeal of metal against wood sounded like a sigh.
Inside, the house smelled of rain and old books.A small fire flickered in the hearth, and the warmth reached my skin with startling familiarity.On the mantle above the fire sat a line of glass jars, each filled with smooth river stones — a child's collection.I remembered them.I had gathered them myself.
Eli hung his coat by the door and went to the table where a single plate waited.He poured soup from a dented pot, steam curling into the dim air.
"She's gone to the fields," he said. "She'll be back soon. You can sit, mister."
I lowered myself into the chair opposite him.The wood creaked.The fire cracked softly.
For a long time, neither of us spoke.The boy ate in small, careful bites, his gaze occasionally flicking toward me, curious but unafraid.
When he finished, he set the spoon down and said quietly:
"You remind me of my father."
My breath caught.I looked at him — truly looked — and saw it.The resemblance.The tilt of the eyes.The faint scar on the chin.
My own.
The truth settled slowly, like snow.
This was not just my past.This was the life I had lost — the one I had ended.
I was the father.
And this boy was what I had left behind.