Kelvin stepped out of the car. The rain soaked him instantly. George rushed to cover him with an umbrella, but Kelvin waved him away and walked alone through the gate.
He climbed the three small steps and knocked.
No answer.
He knocked again.
Soft footsteps approached.
The door opened.
Judith Isaac stood there, nine years older, thinner, her hair pulled back tightly. She held a dish towel in both hands like she had been interrupted in the middle of washing up.
The color drained from her face.
“Judith,” Kelvin said carefully. “I know this is unexpected. I came because I owed you—”
He stopped.
Inside the house, he heard small running footsteps.
Then a boy appeared in the hallway.
Maybe eight years old. Wearing a red school sweater slightly too big for him. Bright eyes. Serious face.
Kelvin stopped breathing.
Because the child looking at him had his eyes.
Not similar eyes. Not a resemblance that could be explained away. They were Kelvin’s eyes. The same pale, sharp stare he saw in the mirror every morning. The same square jaw his mother used to touch and say, “You look just like your grandfather.”
And above the boy’s right eyebrow was a faint white scar.
Kelvin slowly raised his hand and touched the identical scar above his own eyebrow—the one he’d gotten at seven years old after falling off a bicycle.
The rain, the street, the whole world went silent.
The boy looked up at him curiously. “Mom, who is that man?”
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