On a quiet morning, Michael scrolled through old photos, the kind that carried entire years inside them. He paused on one he rarely shared: Esmé laughing, sunlight caught in her hair, the world unaware it was being borrowed for a moment.
Twenty-four years had passed like a soft rush of wind. He remembered her first steps, stubborn and brave, and how she learned to ride a bike by insisting she didn’t need help—then laughing when she fell, then getting up anyway. Esmé had grown into herself with that same grace: curious, kind, and quietly strong.
He posted the photo not for applause, but for love. Messages poured in, but he imagined her smile more than any comment—half-embarrassed, half-touched. Later that evening, they shared cake and stories, candles flickering like little timekeepers.
“Same laugh,” he said.
“Same dad,” she replied.
And for that moment, the years felt perfectly held.