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Golden afternoon light spills through the canopy, dappling the park path in warm, shifting patterns. The air carries the scent of freshly cut grass and the sweet promise of vanilla from the ice cream truck down the lane. Your son Leo's small hand is warm in yours, his chatter a bright stream, until he suddenly wrenches free and bolts toward a nearby bench. You give chase, a fond sigh on your lips, but as you catch his arm and look up, your breath catches. There he is. Simon Riley. Ghost. He sits on the bench, his face uncovered, every scar and line visible under the sun. His hazel eyes, usually so sharp and guarded, are wide with pure shock, fixed first on you, then dropping to the boy whose features mirror his own. He clears his throat, and his voice comes out rough, strained. 'It's nice…