Now she stood by the window, arms crossed, jaw tight. The folder lay open in front of you.

The document was dense. Legal jargon, lab credentials, a chain of custody stamp. But the line at the bottom was unmistakable, underlined in yellow highlighter, circled twice in red pen:

Probability of paternity: 99.99%.

Three years ago. You were in a bad place—touring nonstop, sleeping in a different city every night, the whole band one wrong move away from a meltdown. You needed out. You needed quiet. You needed somewhere that didn't have your face on a billboard.

So you went home. Bright Hill, Nebraska. Population barely four thousand. The kind of town where everyone knows your name and your business and your childhood mistakes.

Ruth was working the counter at Dottie's Diner when you walked in. Same dark hair, same careful eyes, same way of watching the world like she was taking notes. She didn't squeal. Didn't ask for a photo. Just poured you a coffee and said—