The living room was dark, only faint moonlight creeping through the curtains.
His pulse picked up. A burglary? Had soone broken in? Why wasn’t the door fully open?
He flicked on the lights.
And what he saw was not at all what he expected.
Pascal Brandt — much younger, broad-shouldered, his hair still full and dark — was pacing across the living room like a man who had forgotten how to stand still. His steps were short and restless, as if he didn’t know what he was waiting for.
Before Javi could speak again, the bedroom door clicked softly open.
Out ca his mother, Helena Brandt, her expression stern and warning as she pressed a finger against her lips.
"Michael," she whispered sharply, "keep your voice down."
Javi closed his mouth imdiately.
Sothing was wrong.
Very wrong.
The entire atmosphere felt thick—like the house itself was holding its breath. His mother almost never calls him Michael. It was always Micha, or so variation of it. Sothing he had always asked her to stop doing, but this ti, he sohow dreaded the reason she had called him that.
"What’s going on?" he whispered back, barely moving his lips.
Helena exchanged a look with Pascal, one laden with tension. She then stepped closer, lowering her voice even more.
"There’s... soone here."
She didn’t say who.
The seriousness in her tone was enough to make Javi’s heart drop to his stomach.
And for the first ti that evening...
He felt fear.
Javi stared at his mother, his voice barely above a breath.
"Who’s in there? What’s going on?"
Helena swallowed once and looked him straight in the eyes.
"It’s... your son, Michael."
The world seed to lurch sideways.
For a mont Javi thought he misheard her, that exhaustion from training was playing tricks on his ears.
"My... what?"
Helena didn’t blink. "Your son. I just put him to sleep."
Javi’s knees nearly gave way.
"What do you an I have a son? How—how is that possible? With who?"
Pascal finally stopped pacing. His face was pale, tight around the eyes, worn by the past hour.
"It’s Jane’s child," Pascal said plainly. "Jane... that girl you were with. From Scotland."
Javi’s breath hitched.
"...Jane?"
His heart slamd against his ribs.
"Is she here? Is Jane in there right now?"
"No," Pascal said, shaking his head. "She dropped the baby off... about an hour ago. Said she wasn’t staying. She didn’t want to see you."
Javi felt sothing crack inside his chest—sothing fragile, sothing unprepared.
"We tried to stop her," Helena added softly. "But she insisted."
Pascal reached over to the mantle and picked up a folded envelope—creased, slightly damp at the corners, as though soone had gripped it too hard.
"She left this," he said, handing the letter to Javi.
Javi stared at it, numb fingers clumsy as he unfolded the paper.
The handwriting was unmistakably Jane’s—round, clean strokes, slightly slanted to the right.
Hey Mickey,
I am so sorry. I know leaving him like this is unforgivable, and I understand if you decide to hate for it. I didn’t know what else to do. I couldn’t go through with the adoption—not when I knew you were here, alive, and capable of being his father.
Please don’t think this is because of sothing you did. You were kind to . You were good to . But I am not ready for this. I panicked. My life... my plans... everything is collapsing around and I cannot be a mother right now. I don’t have the strength for it.
You deserve to know he exists. He deserves soone who won’t resent him for everything I couldn’t handle. I think... I hope... that soone is you.
I’m sorry for what I’m leaving on your shoulders. I’m sorry for hurting you. I’m sorry for walking away. But I can’t stay here. And I can’t take him with .
Please don’t try to contact . I won’t answer. I have handed my lawyer’s card to your parents. I will communicate anything needed to handover custody to you through him. I’m not ready to face any of this.
Take care of him if you can. He’s innocent in all of this.
— Jane.
The letter trembled in his hands.
He felt the room close in on him—walls shrinking, air thinning.
His mother stepped closer, but Javi barely noticed.
He looked up once, eyes wide and lost, then he turned and walked toward the bedroom as if pulled by sothing magnetic and unstoppable.
His hand shook when he pushed the door open.
There, in the soft glow of the bedside lamp, was a small cradle.
Inside it, wrapped in thick baby clothes, tiny fists curled under his chin, was a four-month-old boy sleeping with a blue pacifier bobbing gently with every quiet breath.
Lukas.
Javi stepped forward slowly, as though any sudden move might break the mont or shatter the fragile life inside the cradle.
He knelt beside it, his breath uneven, his heart beating sowhere high up in his throat, and reached out a trembling hand.
He stroked the baby’s small tummy, barely pressing, just enough to feel warmth.
The first tear slid down his cheek and landed dangerously close to the baby’s blanket. Javi quickly wiped his face with the back of his hand, terrified of letting any drop fall on the sleeping infant.
The room felt impossibly quiet, the kind of stillness that follows a sudden storm.
"Hey... little one..." he whispered, voice cracking.
Helena quietly pushed the door open just enough for her head to slip through.
"Michael," she whispered, "co out for a mont."
Javi hesitated, glancing back at the tiny sleeping boy as if stepping away even for a second felt wrong. But he finally stood, gave Lukas one last gentle look, and followed his mother out of the room.
When he entered the living room again, he stopped short.
There was a man seated on the sofa—mid-forties, wearing a dark-grey wool coat and a satchel resting by his feet. He stood up politely as Javi approached.
"Michael," Pascal said, guiding his son closer, "this is Herr Dieter Kränke. He’s a colleague of mine. Family law."
The man nodded once, offering a firm but sympathetic handshake.
"I’m sorry we’re eting under such circumstances," Herr Kränke said. His voice was calm and professional, but there was a softness in his expression. "Your father explained the situation briefly."
Javi swallowed, still reeling. "I... I don’t understand anything. She just left him. She just... left him."
"That’s exactly why I’m here," the lawyer replied, lowering himself back into the seat. "When an infant is abandoned in this way, the legal status becos critical very quickly. The mother’s intentions, her location, her ability to care for the child... all of this determines who has custody, temporarily or permanently."
Pascal gestured for Javi to sit, which he did chanically, hands clasped together.
Herr Kränke opened a notepad and placed a business card on the coffee table. "Your mother ntioned that the baby was accompanied by a note. Is that correct?"
Javi handed it over silently. The lawyer read through it carefully, his eyes tracing each line with slow deliberation.
Then he nodded to himself and exhaled through his nose.
"This will help."
Javi frowned. "Help how?"
"It confirms that she relinquished care voluntarily," the lawyer explained. "She explicitly states she is not capable of raising him. That gives us a strong basis for ergency custody, which would be granted to you as the biological father — provided you want to take that responsibility."
Javi didn’t even blink.
"Yes," he said imdiately. "Of course. He’s my son."
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