Below the image was a single date carved into the stone:
January 29, 1984.
My birthday.
Lily gripped my arm. Her voice was steady, but I could feel her fear.
“Travis. This is too strange. I don’t like this. Let’s go home.”
“Just… give me a minute,” I said.
I knelt and touched the ceramic frame. It was cold.
Something shifted inside me — not just fear, but something deeper. A flicker of recognition I couldn’t explain.
That night, after Ryan fell asleep, I sat at the kitchen table staring at the photo on my phone.
“What is this?” I muttered. “That’s me. No question. But I’ve never been here.”
Lily sat across from me, thinking.
“Did your adoptive mom ever mention Maine?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “I asked about my past once. She told me she didn’t know much. Just that a firefighter named Ed found me outside a burning house when I was four. I had a note pinned to my shirt.”
“What did it say?”
“‘Please take care of this boy. His name is Travis.’ That’s all.”
Lily squeezed my hand.
