Dorian stood frozen at the gate, his hand still raised from knocking as he watched Willow make her way behind the cottage.
He watched the small figure toddled between the herb rows, chasing a butterfly with chubby hands outstretched.
The boy couldn't have been more than a year old, his dark hair catching the afternoon sun.
The child noticed him and stopped, tilting his head with curious eyes. Instead of running away or crying at the sight of a stranger, Evan walked closer, his little fingers wrapping around the gate's wooden slats.
"Hi," The boy said, his voice high and sweet. "You sad?"
Dorian's knees gave out. He sank to the ground on the other side of the gate, eye level with his son, and the tears he had been holding back for months finally broke free.
This was his child. The baby Willow had carried while he tormented her.
"Why you crying?" Evan asked, reaching his small hand through the gate to pat Dorian's face.
