Three days later, Adrian arrived at a small marina on the Georgia coast.

It was nothing like the world he knew.

No glass towers.

No luxury cars.

No private security.

Only fishing boats rocking gently against wooden docks.

The marina manager studied the photograph.

"Yeah," he said. "I know him."

Adrian nearly stopped breathing.

"You do?"

"He goes by Noah now."

The name hit Adrian like thunder.

"Where is he?"

The manager pointed toward the water.

A young man stood on a dock repairing a boat.

Twenty-four years old.

Dark hair.

Strong shoulders.

The same eyes.

Claire's eyes.

Noah looked up.

Their gazes met.

For a moment neither moved.

Neither spoke.

Neither understood why their hearts suddenly felt too large for their chests.

Adrian stepped forward.

"Noah."

The young man froze.

Nobody here knew that name.

Nobody except him.

The wrench slipped from his hand and hit the dock.

"What did you call me?"

Adrian's voice broke.

"Noah."

The young man's face drained of color.

A thousand forgotten memories seemed to flicker behind his eyes.

A beach.

A dog.

A wooden sailboat.

A woman singing him to sleep.

A father lifting him onto his shoulders.

Then tears appeared.

The first tears Adrian had seen in ten years that felt like hope.

"Dad?"

The single word shattered every wall Adrian had built around his grief.

He ran.

Noah ran too.

And for the first time in a decade, father and son embraced.

Neither could let go.