At first… it was just a coincidence.

That’s what I told myself.

The same eyes.

The same smile.

Even the way he laughed…

It felt familiar.

Too familiar.

But I pushed the thought away.

My son had been missing for 15 years.

There was no way.

No way this grown man standing in my workshop…

Could be him.

“Where did you learn to do this kind of work?” I asked casually.

He shrugged.

“Don’t really know… just always felt natural.”

My heart skipped.

Felt natural?

That’s exactly what I used to say about my son when he was little.

I tried to stay calm.

Tried not to let my mind run wild.

But then I saw it.

A small scar… just above his eyebrow.

My hands started shaking.

“Where did you get that?” I asked quietly.

He paused.

“Had it since I was a kid. I don’t really remember how.”

My chest tightened.

I remembered.

A fall.

A broken table.

Blood everywhere.

I had held him in my arms that day.

“Hey…” I said, voice trembling.

“What’s your full name?”

He told me.

It wasn’t the name I gave him.

But something inside me already knew.

“Do you remember anything… from before you were adopted?”

He froze.

“Not really…”

Then slowly…

“I remember a man. A workshop. And… someone calling me a nickname.”

I couldn’t breathe.

“What nickname?”

He looked at me.

Confused.

“…Buddy.”

The world stopped.

That’s what I used to call him.

Only me.

No one else.

Tears filled my eyes.

“It’s me…” I whispered.

Silence.

He stared at me.

Searching my face.

Trying to understand.

And then…

Something clicked.

A memory.

A feeling.

A connection that never fully disappeared.

“Dad…?”

I broke.

After 15 years…

He was right in front of me.

Not lost.

Not gone.

Just… waiting to be found.