And I slid a small, faded photograph across the counter toward him, a photograph I had found tucked into the back of Julian’s journal.

It showed a young Julian, decades ago, holding a small laughing boy up on his shoulders outside this very shop, the two of them squinting and grinning under an afternoon sun.

On the back, in Julian’s careful hand, were four words: My boy Caleb.

My greatest hope. Caleb picked up the photograph, and his hand trembled, visibly, as he read the back.

“He didn’t leave this shop to me to keep it from you,” I continued, softly.