Owen breathed quietly, watching the distant green hills. His long hair had been drinking in the fine mist, which was why he hadn't noticed the drizzle until the moisture began to trace a slow line down his forehead — cool and clean in that last hour before dark. He'd once stood here with his father, this same spot, this same time of day, a summer evening, and they'd watched the sun go down in silence, exchanging only the occasional glance. He wiped his brow and looked at his damp hand.
Just like Dad's, Owen thought.
The same fingers, the same skin — only without the calluses earned from the earth.
"Owen, dinner's ready. Just the way you like it," a voice said, right in his ear.
"Forgot to take the earring off again," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. The microphone caught it despite the wind.
"I'm sorry for the intrusion. Come when you're ready."
Owen wasn't angry — not at the assistant, at least. The sun had nearly set, and he was loath to let go of whatever this feeling was. He'd never found a name for it, but he always recognized it when it came.
"I'm glad I still have you," he said aloud.
"It is a pleasure to serve you," the assistant replied.
The corners of his mouth twitched into a ghost of a smile.
"You're always pleased. But I was talking about Dad..."
Walking back to the house in the dark, Owen let out a heavy sigh. After a moment's hesitation, he spoke to the earring.
"Show me something from Mom's archive."
A faint rectangle of light unfolded in the air before him — an old recording, grainy and warm in color, handheld. The same hill, the same summer grass, only lighter — and his father standing in exactly the spot where Owen himself had just been standing. Younger than Owen had ever known him.
The camera swayed; footsteps through grass; then his mother's voice, low and careful, the way you speak when you don't want to break something.
"You've been out here an hour."
"You know," his father said, without turning around, "I have this feeling we're going to have a son."
His mother was silent. In that silence you could hear the grass swaying in the wind.
"Where is this coming from?"
"I don't know. I'm just standing here and I feel like he's already somewhere close. Waiting."
"I'll stay with him five more minutes, then I'm coming in," he added. There was something so still and happy in his voice that a lump formed in Owen's throat.
The recording cut out.
Owen stood at the threshold and didn't go in, listening to the insects chirping in the grass. He thought about the recording. The same place. The same time of day.
"Thank you," he said to the assistant.
"For what?"
"Just because."