Then another.
His face drained of color.
He wasn’t looking at Arthur anymore. He was staring at the faded photo on the laminated card.
His voice dropped to a whisper.
“Where did you get this?”
Arthur followed his gaze down to the picture—an impossibly young man frozen in time.
“He was my friend,” Arthur said softly.
Vincent swallowed hard. “That man… his name is George Bennett.”
Arthur nodded. “Yes.”
Vincent’s composure broke. “He was my father.”
The words landed like a physical weight. Arthur stared at him, seeing echoes of George in the man’s eyes—the same curve, the same expression.
“He never came home,” Vincent said. “My mom kept that photo on her nightstand until she died.”
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