(Yvette POV)
I was holding his hand.
That was the first thing I felt.
Small fingers wrapped around mine, warm and slightly sticky, as if he had just been eating something sweet. I could feel the faint press of his palm, the way his thumb rubbed against my skin unconsciously, the way children do when they are tired but still want to hold on.
"Mama," he called.
His voice was soft. Clear. So achingly real that my chest tightened instantly.
I looked down.
He was standing in front of me, tilting his head as he smiled—wide and bright and familiar in a way that shattered me all at once. He had Joseph's eyes. There was no mistaking that. The same shape, the same depth, the same earnestness that always undid me.
But the rest of him was me.
My smile.
My nose.
My stubborn little frown when he concentrated too hard.
He was perfect.
"You're late," he said with a pout, tugging gently at my hand. "You promised."
