Billy walked the slow path home, his shoes brushing over the dirt road, the breeze shifting through the trees like a whisper.
The village air was cooler now, touched by the coming night. The golden light of the setting sun curled around the rooftops and cast long shadows ahead of him.
He didn't rush. He couldn't.
Each step felt like a thread pulling from two different worlds. The one he'd known—this quiet, grounded place of routine and warmth—and the one now tugging at his mind, distant but real:
A mother's tearful voice, a sister's laugh from the past, the weight of a name he didn't remember choosing.
When he reached the house, the door was already open.
Artur stood in the entry, his back straight but his eyes gentle, waiting—not asking.
Billy looked up at him, then down again, his shoulders dropping slightly. Artur didn't say a word.
He just reached forward, took Billy's hand with quiet certainty, and led him inside.
