But nothing felt the same.

The man stared at the photograph, his hands shaking harder now.

It was younger him.

Smiling.

Holding a woman… and a baby.

“No…” he whispered. “That’s not possible…”

The boy stepped closer.

“She kept this. Every day. Even when she was sick.”

The man’s voice cracked.

“Your mother… what’s her name?”

“Elena.”

The name hit like a bullet.

The man staggered back, nearly knocking over his chair.

“I thought… I thought she left…”

“No,” the boy said softly. “You did.”

Silence again—but heavier this time.

The guests were no longer watching a scene.

They were witnessing a collapse.

“Why now?” the man asked, broken. “Why come here?”

The boy swallowed.

“Because she’s dying. And she still listens for that song. Every night.”

The flute trembled in his hand.

“She said… if you heard it, you’d remember who you were.”

The man covered his face.

Years of pride. Of distance. Of lies he told himself—

crumbling in seconds.

“Is she… still alive?” he whispered.

The boy nodded.

“For now.”

That was enough.

The man stood abruptly.

“Take me to her. Please…”

No arrogance left.

No power.

Just a man who had finally understood what he lost.

The boy looked at him for a long moment.

Then turned.

And began to walk.

This time—

the man followed.

Not as someone important.

But as someone trying to become human again.