PART 4: The son who never got to meet his own blood
The old man’s eyes drifted to the silver hawk on Rex’s collar.
Something in his face shifted. Not anger. Not sadness.
Just… forty years of weight settling back onto his shoulders.
“He died on a mission nobody was allowed to talk about. I couldn’t even tell his wife where he was buried at first. They gave me an empty casket and that patch.”
He paused.
Rain tapped against the window like it was knocking to come in.
“I spent every Tuesday since then sitting in this same booth, staring out this same window, wondering if anything of him was still left in the world.”
Rex’s voice came out rough, almost broken.
“My dad… he gave me this patch when I turned eighteen. Said it belonged to his old man. A hero. Never told me the hero had a father still alive.”
The old man looked at him for a long time.
May you like
Then said the words that made Rex’s chest tighten:
“You have his eyes. Same stubborn fire. Same way of standing like the world owes you nothing.”
