The city was too bright that morning.
Not the kind of brightness that lifted moods or softened hearts, but the kind that sliced — sunlight ricocheting off mirrored glass, catching the edges of his reflection in every polished surface. It followed him through the boulevard, the gleam of wealth and industry bowing only to his shadow.
Alexander Knight walked like a man who had forgotten what it was to stumble. Every stride measured, every silence owned. Yet beneath the marble of his composure, a low, unrelenting pulse throbbed — a disquiet he couldn't name.
It had begun days ago, after the discovery. Lena Ward. The name had hung in his office like smoke that refused to clear.
Selene Brooks — gone, buried, reborn.
And somewhere in that lie, the truth he hadn't been ready to face.
He needed air, though he'd never admit that aloud. His car slowed before a quiet café tucked between two boutiques, its awning faded by sun and rain. It wasn't his kind of place — too humble, too human — but something in the simplicity drew him.
He dismissed his driver and stepped inside.
A small bell announced his entrance, a soft chime swallowed by the hum of conversation and the scent of roasted beans. The space was narrow, lined with warm wood and watercolor paintings. Steam curled from cups like whispered prayers.
And then — laughter.
High, clear, unguarded.
It came from the corner table by the window, where a small boy sat perched on a chair too tall for him, swinging his legs while clutching a chocolate muffin. His cheeks were a riot of crumbs. A sketchbook lay open before him, covered in pencil strokes and careful shading.
Alexander wasn't a man who noticed children. He didn't know how. Yet his gaze caught and refused to move on.
Something about the boy — not just the laughter, but the focus when he drew. The quiet intensity in miniature form.
He ordered black coffee, but his attention didn't leave the table by the window. The barista said something; he nodded without hearing.
The boy drew again — small, practiced lines. A city skyline, maybe. Then a hand — no, a face.
Alexander's stomach tightened.
The sketch was too refined for a child. The eyes on the page were knowing, adult, and oddly familiar.
He sipped his coffee, but the flavor was ash and curiosity. He found himself drifting closer under the guise of finding a seat.
When the boy looked up, their eyes met.
Steel gray met gray.
For a fraction of a second, the café fell away. The world narrowed to that one gaze — open, fearless, unblinking.
Alexander felt the strangest pull, a kind of mirror he hadn't known existed.
"Hi," the boy said, crumb-dusted and curious. "You're standing too close to my table."
Alexander blinked. The directness startled him. He stepped back half a pace, more command than apology. "My mistake."
"You were looking at my drawing."
The boy turned the sketch toward him without hesitation, the confidence of someone raised without fear. "You can look properly. I don't mind."
Alexander studied it. It was, unmistakably, him. The jawline, the watch, even the stance — rendered in graphite with unnerving accuracy.
"Did you draw this?" he asked.
The boy nodded, pleased. "I like drawing faces. Some faces are loud, you know? Even when they don't talk."
Alexander's throat went dry. "Loud?"
"Yeah." The boy squinted up at him. "Yours looks like it's thinking all the time but never says what it's thinking. Like it's guarding a secret."
For once, Alexander didn't know how to respond.
Children were supposed to be simple. Predictable. But this one dissected him in less than a minute with nothing but a pencil and a stare.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Zane." The boy grinned, wide and unafraid. "You?"
"Alexander."
Zane repeated it under his breath, tasting the syllables like they mattered. "Alexander," he said again, as if committing it to memory. "That sounds like someone important."
A faint smile tugged at the corner of Alexander's mouth. "And what makes someone important?"
"They have that look." Zane gestured at his drawing. "Like the world listens even when they whisper."
Something in Alexander's chest shifted — a subtle, sharp ache he hadn't invited. He looked at the sketch again, then at the boy.
The resemblance nagged at him now, too much to ignore — the shape of the eyes, the tilt of the brow, the stubborn set of the mouth.
A flicker of recognition brushed the edges of his mind like a ghost refusing to vanish.
Before he could ask more, a woman's voice called from the counter. "Zane!"
The boy perked up. "Coming, Mama!"
Alexander froze.
He turned — but she was already half-hidden by the crowd near the counter. He caught only a glimpse: a spill of dark hair, a coat the color of stormlight, and the familiar curve of a neck he'd once traced with his mouth.
Selene.
His pulse thundered.
No. It couldn't be.
He started toward her, the coffee forgotten, the world narrowing again — but Zane jumped from his chair, grabbing his sketchbook.
"Bye, Mister Alexander!"
And then, in a blur of motion, the boy ran to her. She turned just enough for him to see her profile — the same lips, the same fragile defiance carved into every line of her face.
Selene.
Alive. Here.
He stood rooted to the floor, as if time itself had thickened around him.
The café door opened; the bell chimed again; she stepped into the sunlight.
By the time he reached the window, she was already crossing the street, hand in hand with the boy — his son — though he didn't know it yet.
He watched the wind lift a strand of her hair as she looked back briefly, scanning the crowd. Her gaze swept past the glass, almost meeting his, but not quite.
And then she was gone.
He stared after them until the reflection in the window swallowed the street. His own image stared back — composed, immaculate, and suddenly, unbearably hollow.
The barista cleared her throat softly. "Refill, sir?"
He didn't answer. He set the untouched cup down and walked out.
The air outside hit like cold water. The city noise rose around him — traffic, footsteps, laughter — yet all he could hear was that voice, bright and young.
Hi. You're standing too close to my table.
He stood there for a long time, caught between disbelief and the slow, dawning terror that life had just rewritten itself without his consent.
Because he had seen something today — not just Selene, but a reflection of himself, smaller, freer, unguarded.
Zane.
The name clung to him, echoing like a heartbeat he hadn't realized he'd lost.
And for the first time in years, Alexander Knight — master of empires, ruler of his own cold kingdom — felt the ground beneath him shift.
He didn't know yet what he had found.
Only that he couldn't unsee it.