I was out for a walk when I saw a little girl, no older than six, crying in the middle of the road. Her scraped knee was the least of her worries; she was sitting just before a sharp curve, where cars often sped. My heart stopped as a red sedan screeched toward her. I sprinted, scooped her up, and barely avoided the car as it whizzed by.

“Thank you,” she sniffled, clutching me tightly. “I was trying to catch up to my mom.”

I helped her back to her grandmother’s mansion—an imposing house with a black gate. Inside, the woman, Vivienne, thanked me warmly, inviting me for tea. As she cleaned Evie’s scrape, I wandered through the house, my eyes landing on a photo that made my heart skip a beat.

It was a man who looked exactly like me, but he was from another era. Vivienne’s voice trembled as she explained, “That’s my brother, Henry. He vanished 50 years ago.”

I was stunned. “Who was your father?”

Vivienne’s face softened. “Henry was your father. You’re my nephew.”

The revelation hit me like a freight train. I’d spent my life without answers, but now the puzzle was complete. Family wasn’t just about blood—it was about the ties that unexpectedly bind.

“Welcome home, Logan,” Vivienne whispered, her voice thick with emotion.