“He said he disappointed you,” Ethan said. “That you laughed when he said he wanted to study architecture. He wanted to design buildings, not just pour concrete. When he insisted, you told him to leave.”
William closed his eyes. The memory came back sharp and merciless—his son standing at the door with a duffel bag, anger filling the hallway. He had equated obedience with respect, control with love.
“I was wrong,” William whispered.
Ethan continued, voice cracking. “He died holding that watch. Even when he could barely breathe, he said your name. He wanted to apologize.”
William’s breath faltered. Apologize? After everything?
“My mom passed not long after,” Ethan added quietly. “She left me the watch and this address. She said if I was ever lost, I should come here.”
“Do you have it?” William asked.
Ethan carefully unwrapped a cloth bundle from his pocket. Inside lay the gold watch, gleaming under the chandelier light. The engraving was unmistakable: W.H.
William removed his own watch and placed it beside the other on the table. Two identical pieces of gold, shining like fragments of a broken promise.
Silence settled heavily around them.