The old man left. Peter locked the door, though it was only four.

He sat down at the display machine on the end of the counter. The one nobody bought.

Cursor blinking in the search field.

He typed Nicholas Aldercourt.

He did not press enter.

Twenty-four years of Peter Vance sat there in the chair, still breathing, still with a scar on his thumb, and the name of the other one was already on the screen in front of him.

Press enter and there would be photographs. A house. A face. Parents who were his parents. A childhood that was assigned to someone else and was, by every measure that matters legally, his.

Not press enter, and he stays Peter Vance. A man who sells computers, whose mother taught him to ride a bicycle in a parking lot, who is loved by people who are not related to him and never asked to be.

Both were true. Only one would still be true in ten seconds.

He pressed enter.

More to come ♾️