Ben's mind had drifted back again even before he'd finished talking to her, retracing his steps from one summer to the next. He didn't have far to go before he realized. The woman he'd met in the shop. The one-time thing. He hadn't even known her name. But he'd seen her since then — he'd seen her just weeks ago. I saw you in passing in public recently. Shit. It was her, it had to be her. That must have been why she'd been so awkward about seeing him. She recognized him, and she knew, of course she already knew — and the kid —

Shit. The kid.

Ben had already met him.

Fall of 1888. She'd said he was born in summer of 1889. The math made sense. That was him. Ben had talked to him. He'd put an arm around his shoulder. He'd given him a bar of chocolate. He'd learned his name — what was it? What was her name? She'd told him — she was married now, but she hadn't been then —

Melody was leaving.

"Y-yeah," Ben called, shaky and a beat too late. "See you. Thanks."

He had a son.