Three hours later, I heard Rowan’s key in the front door.

He came in carrying a box of leftover birthday cake, wearing the watch, calling out something easy and careless about being home.

And then he looked toward the living room, and he stopped.

My father was sitting in the rocking chair by the window, in the soft afternoon light, holding Felix against his shoulder.

Rowan froze in the entryway.

The cake box slid out of his hands and hit the floor, and neither of us looked at it.

“Mr.