Owen breathed quietly, watching the distant green hills. His long hair caught the fine drops, and he didn't notice the drizzle until moisture traced a slow line down his forehead, carrying the coolness and freshness of that evening. He had stood here like this with his father once, on this same spot, at this same hour, in summer, both watching the sun go down in silence, glancing at each other now and then. He wiped his forehead and looked at his wet hand.
Like Dad's hands, Owen thought.
The same fingers, the same skin, just without the calluses that come from working the earth.
"Owen, dinner's ready. Your favourite," he heard, right in his ear.
"Forgot to take the earring out again," the man said under his breath, more to himself than anyone. But the microphone caught it anyway, even through the wind.
"Sorry to interrupt. Come when you're ready."
Owen wasn't angry, at least not at the assistant. The sun had nearly set, and he was sorry to let go of that feeling, the one he could never name but always recognised.
"I'm glad you stayed," he said aloud.
"Happy to serve you," the assistant replied.
The corners of the man's mouth shifted into the faintest smile.
"You're always happy. But I meant dad…"
Walking back to the house in the dark, Owen sighed and, after a moment, spoke to the earring.
"Show me something from mum's archive."
A faint rectangle of light opened in the air before him, an old recording, grainy and warm in colour, shot handheld. On the screen was the same hill, the same grass, only brighter, summer grass, and his father stood in exactly the spot where Owen himself had been standing moments ago, younger than Owen remembered him.
The camera shifted, someone moved through the grass, and his mother spoke quietly, the way you speak when you're afraid to disturb something.
"You've been out here an hour."
"You know," his father said, not turning around, "I have this feeling we're going to have a son."
His mother said nothing for a moment, and in that silence you could hear the grass moving in the wind.
"What makes you say that?"
"I don't know. I'm just standing here and I can feel it, like he's already somewhere nearby, already waiting."
"Five more minutes with him and we'll go," he added, and there was something so calm and happy in his voice that Owen's throat tightened.
The recording ended.
Owen stood at the door and didn't go in, listening to the insects 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."