The woman lifted her eyes for a second. They passed over Marcus without recognition, as if he were just another well-dressed stranger who had once looked at her with disdain. It was the gaze of someone who had been invisible for too long.
“Let’s go,” Marcus said hoarsely, like someone fleeing a fire.
But this time, he didn’t pull Ethan away. He stood there, body still, heart—after years—beginning to crack.
That night, in his perfect, oversized bed, Marcus couldn’t sleep. Claire, his current wife, lay beside him in silence, as she often did. Their life was calm, stable, built after tragedy—but without warmth. Marcus’s thoughts weren’t with her. They were haunted by a voice:
You are my sunshine…
He got up, barefoot on the cold floor, opened his laptop. Old videos. Things he hadn’t watched in years. There it was—a birthday party, balloons, cake, laughter—and in the middle, Hannah, blonde hair on her shoulders, holding baby Ethan and singing the song the same way. The same note on “sun.” The same gentle pause. His throat tightened.