Milo stared at the picture in his hands, his fingers trembling as he traced the faint image of a woman who bore a striking resemblance to himself. The edges of the photo were worn, as if time had tried to erase her face, but it hadn't succeeded. To Milo, the image felt as vivid as his memories, fragmented, yet impossibly clear.
It wasn't a stranger. It was a face he had clung to in his mind for as long as he could remember: his mother. Despite the years and the haze of childhood, he had never let go of her image. But now, seeing her face staring back at him, the memory that had felt so distant was alarmingly sharp.
"So, you recognize her?" a voice drawled.
Milo's head snapped up, his wide eyes locking onto the man who had handed him the picture. The stranger loomed over him, tall and imposing, with a sharp jawline and a grin that never quite reached his cold eyes.
