Chapter 2: The Photograph
Marcus couldn't move.
Samuel stood near the entrance with one hand resting on the handle of the cart.
Behind him, Christmas lights blinked against the glass.
Children laughed.
Cash registers chimed.
Someone called for an employee.
But Marcus heard only his own breathing.
“Your father gave you this?”” he asked.
Samuel nodded.
“Years ago.””
Marcus held the watch between both hands.
“Do you know what this says?””
Samuel's eyes narrowed.
“I can read.””
“No. I mean…”
Marcus turned the watch around.
Samuel saw the engraving.
His face tightened.
He stepped closer.
“I haven't looked at that in years.””
Marcus whispered, “Why does it say your name?””
Samuel frowned.
“Because it's mine.””
“Who engraved it?””
Samuel looked away.
“My father.””
Marcus's heartbeat slammed against his ribs.
“What was his name?””
Samuel hesitated.
“Thomas.””
Marcus's lips parted.
That name was familiar.
Too familiar.
His mother had mentioned Thomas only once.
Marcus had been nine years old.
He remembered sitting beneath a Christmas tree while his mother packed decorations into cardboard boxes.
He'd found an old photograph.
A young Black man stood beside a motorcycle.
There was a little boy beside him.
And on the boy's wrist was a silver watch.
Marcus had asked who they were.
His mother had taken the photograph from his hands.
She'd cried.
Then she'd said the same sentence she repeated whenever Marcus asked about his father.
Your father left.
Nothing else.
No name.
No photograph.
No explanation.
Marcus looked at Samuel.
“Can I ask you something?””
Samuel nodded.
“Did you have a son?””
The older man's jaw tightened.
“Yes.””
“What happened to him?””
Samuel stared at the floor.
“He disappeared.””
Marcus stopped breathing.
“What do you mean, disappeared?””
Samuel rubbed his thumb over the edge of the watch.
“His mother took him.””
“When?””
“Thirty years ago.””
Marcus's eyes widened.
“Where?””
“I don't know.””
“You never looked?””
“I looked everywhere.””
Marcus's voice became sharper.
“For how long?””
Samuel looked at him.
“Years.””
A little girl nearby dropped a toy box.
The crash made both men flinch.
Marcus lowered his voice.
“What's your son's name?””
Samuel opened his mouth.
Then stopped.
His eyes became distant.
“I haven't said that name out loud in a long time.””
Marcus felt something cold move through him.
He reached beneath the register.
Samuel noticed.
“What are you doing?””
“Looking for something.””
Marcus pulled open a drawer.
Inside were receipts, spare batteries, tape, pens, and a small brass key.
He picked up the key.
His hand shook.
Samuel watched him.
“What's that?””
Marcus didn't answer.
He turned and walked toward the storage room.
Samuel followed.
The store's warmth disappeared behind the swinging door.
The back room smelled like cardboard, dust, and pine-scented cleaner.
Marcus went to an old metal cabinet.
He unlocked it.
Inside was a battered wooden box.
His mother's handwriting was still visible across the lid.
*MARCUS — DO NOT OPEN.*
Samuel stared at it.
“Marcus?””
The younger man froze.
“You know my name.””
Samuel looked confused.
“You're the owner. Your employees called you Marcus.””
Marcus slowly opened the box.
Inside were photographs.
Letters.
A hospital bracelet.
A tiny red child's mitten.
And one photograph.
Marcus lifted it.
Samuel stepped forward.
His entire body went rigid.
The photograph showed a little Black boy sitting on the hood of an old motorcycle.
Beside him stood a younger Samuel.
Same eyes.
Same scar beneath the left eyebrow.
Same silver watch.
Marcus stared at the picture.
Then he looked at Samuel.
“That's you.””
Samuel's face had gone pale.
“Where did you get that?””
“My mother.””
Samuel reached for it.
Marcus pulled it back.
“Don't.””
Samuel stopped.
Marcus's voice cracked.
“She told me you abandoned us.””
Samuel's eyes filled with confusion.
“Us?””
Marcus laughed once.
It wasn't a happy sound.
“My mother.””
Samuel stared at him.
“What's your mother's name?””
Marcus hesitated.
Then said it.
Samuel stepped backward.
“No.””
Marcus felt his hands go numb.
“You know her?””
Samuel shook his head.
“No.””
But his eyes said otherwise.
He pointed at the photograph.
“Where did she get that?””
“She kept it.””
“For thirty years?””
Marcus nodded.
Samuel's breathing became uneven.
“I gave that photograph to my son.””
Marcus looked down.
The little boy's wrist was visible.
The watch.
The exact watch.
Marcus turned it over again.
The engraving stared back at him.
*To Samuel — Dad will always come back.*
He suddenly remembered something his mother had told him when he was small.
A promise.
A warning.
He'd never understood it.
If he ever comes back, don't let him take you away again.
Marcus looked at Samuel.
“Why would she say that?””
Samuel's voice was barely audible.
“Because she knew I was looking.””
A silence fell between them.
Marcus stared.
“You were looking for me?””
Samuel didn't answer.
Instead, he reached into his vest.
From an inside pocket, he pulled out a folded piece of paper.
It was old.
Yellowed.
He unfolded it carefully.
Marcus saw a child's handwriting.
Samuel's fingers trembled.
“I carried this for thirty years.””
Marcus looked at the paper.
There was one sentence written across it.
*Dad, when you come back, I'll be waiting.*
Marcus's eyes filled with tears.
“Who wrote that?””
Samuel looked directly at him.
“My son.””
Marcus's phone suddenly rang.
He glanced at the screen.
Unknown number.
He answered.
“Hello?””
A woman's voice whispered through the speaker.
“Marcus…”
He recognized it instantly.
His mother.
“Mom?””
Her breathing was shaky.
“Listen to me carefully.””
Marcus stood straighter.
“What happened?””
“Is there an old man with you?””
Marcus looked at Samuel.
“Yes.””
Silence.
Then his mother's voice broke.
“Whatever he tells you…”
A pause.
“…don't believe him.””
The call ended.
Samuel stared at Marcus.
Marcus stared back.
And neither man noticed the old photograph lying between them had fallen open to reveal something written on its back.
May you like
A date.
And a hospital name.
