“Seventeen Magnolia Street,” he said suddenly.
The driver glanced at him in the mirror, surprised, but nodded without a word. The car turned away from the glittering center of the city and moved into quieter neighborhoods where porch lights glowed softly and people still waved to neighbors.
As the Rolls-Royce entered streets lined with modest homes, the contrast felt almost cruel. Here, ambition did not roar. It rested. It lived quietly behind curtains and front gardens that were trimmed with care, not money.
Alex’s chest tightened as the car slowed in front of a small two-story house. The paint looked freshly maintained. The garden was tidy. The place felt untouched by the world he now inhabited, as if time had chosen to be gentle here.
Alex stepped out and waved off the driver. The air felt cooler, steadier. Each step up the stone path felt louder than it should have.
He reached the front door and rang the bell.
Seconds stretched, thin and tense.
Then the door opened.
Sofia stood there.
She looked older, of course. Fine lines traced the corners of her eyes. There was a quiet strength in her posture, a life lived with responsibility and resolve. Her hair was pulled back simply. Her clothes were practical, not chosen for attention, but for comfort and purpose.
Her gaze met his without softness.
“Alex?” she said, disbelief sharpening her voice. “Why are you here?”
He had rehearsed words in his mind during the ride. Apologies. Explanations. Something that sounded reasonable.
But standing in front of her, all of it dissolved.
“I just… I needed to see you,” he managed.
And in that moment, Alex felt poorer than he had ever felt in his entire life.
A Home That Didn’t Need Proving
Sofia hesitated, studying him as if she were trying to decide whether he was real or simply a memory that had wandered back in. After a long pause, she stepped aside.
“Come in,” she said. “Don’t stand out there.”
Inside, the home was modest but carefully kept. A worn sofa that had seen years of use. A wooden coffee table. Shelves filled with books and small plants. It smelled like coffee and clean fabric, not luxury candles.
The space was quiet, but not empty. It felt lived in, the way a home should feel.
Sofia offered him water, and he accepted because his throat suddenly felt dry. As she went to the kitchen, his eyes drifted across the room without meaning to.
And then he saw it.
A framed photograph on a side table, near a lamp and a purple orchid.
In the picture was Sofia, smiling softly, and beside her was a child, about five years old, with messy brown hair and striking blue eyes.
Alex froze.
Those eyes were unmistakable.
They were his.
The world narrowed to that single frame. The air in the room seemed to shift. He turned slowly toward Sofia as she returned with the glass of water.
Her face had gone pale.
The pitcher slipped from her hands and shattered on the floor, water spreading in a quick, shimmering pool.
Neither of them moved to clean it.
The truth had already broken something far larger than glass.
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