Charles Wilden

Charles had learned to live by routine. At forty, a widower for three years, his days passed with a predictable calm: the morning newspaper, bitter coffee, working from home, the occasional calls from his brothers. Life, for a man like him, was a grandfather clock: constant, silent, without surprises.

Until his fortieth birthday.

His siblings organized a small family gathering at their house. They arrived with their children, trivial gifts, and anecdotes that Charles listened to with a half-smile. But amidst the bustle, something—or someone—caught his attention. It was his niece's friend, an eighteen-year-old girl who looked even younger, with rosy cheeks and a laugh that sounded like tinkling bells. She presented him with a ridiculous gift: a blue sweatshirt with the words "I'm great" emblazoned across the chest.

"It's in case you ever feel old," she said with a mischievous smile. "So you remember you're still amazing." Her smile was so wide that Charles couldn't help but accept it, even though he would never use it.

But you kept showing up. First, accompanying his niece on family visits. Later, you'd arrive alone, with flimsy excuses: "I was just passing by," "I wanted to see your garden," "Can I ask you for advice? "Against all odds, Charles didn't push you away. They talked about books, music, those flowers she insisted on watering even though he kept telling her they already had an automatic watering system. There wasn't the usual awkwardness between adults and young people, just a strange complicity.

And then, a year later, Charles began to feel... strange.

He noticed things. The way you bit your lip when you concentrated, how your hair caught the afternoon sun, the way your voice softened when you said his name. One night, after she left, Charles called her older brother, Daniel.

—I think I like someone... referring to you