"Neither did you."
The words hang between us.
"Do you want a tour?" I ask suddenly.
His eyebrows lift. "What?"
"Of the studio. Do you want to see it?"
"You're serious?"
"Yes."
Maybe this is how we start. Not by trying to make up for twenty-nine years, but by taking one small step.
"I'd like that. Yes. I'd really like that."
We walk the halls in silence at first. I show him the main recording room, the booth, the equipment. He takes it all in quietly. We end up in the lounge where my guitars are mounted on the wall.
He stops in front of a rare Gibson Les Paul.
"May I?"
"Yeah. Go ahead."
He lifts it off with reverence. His hands find the strings like they're coming home, settling into a chair.
Then he plays.
Clean. Steady. Familiar in a way that makes my chest tight.
Not a song I recognize, just a progression that flows effortlessly. But the style—how his fingers move, the rhythm—it's like looking in a mirror.
"You play like me," I say when he finishes.
He looks up, a faint smile crossing his face. "Or maybe you play like me."
I don't argue.
How I approach music, how my hands move—I learned it from somewhere.
From him.
"My mom said you played. That you taught guitar before everything."
"Still do. Different city, different students. But yeah. It's the only thing I've ever been good at."
Silence settles between us.
“You know, I thought this would be harder," he admits. "Coming here. Facing you. But you're... you're listening. I don't deserve that."
"You want the truth? I don't have it in me to waste time on hate anymore. I spent too many years carrying it around. I'm not doing that again."
Something like hope flickers in his eyes.
"Does that mean...?"
"I don't know what it means. You're a stranger who happens to share my DNA. You made choices—whether they were right or wrong, I don't know. I wasn't there."
