The sun had barely begun its descent, casting long shadows across the quiet suburban street as I parked my car. It had been years since I last walked this route, the weight of memory pressing against my chest.
My father’s old neighborhood had changed subtly—houses repainted, yards trimmed with care—but the essence of the place remained: familiar, comforting, yet tinged with the echoes of a past I hadn’t fully understood.
I stepped out of the car, my hand hovering over the front door of a modest, unassuming home. The faint scent of lilacs drifted from a small garden to my left, a detail that brought an unexpected pang of nostalgia.
This house had never belonged to me, yet today it felt like the threshold of something profoundly significant.
As I raised my hand to knock, the door opened before I could summon the courage to ring the bell. Standing there was a face I hadn’t seen in decades…
