Chapter 1

I never thought a 65-year-old man would possibly be able to adopt a child, but here I was, a month into this strange new life as Ethan Hale, the adopted son of Henry Hale. It was a life I never could have imagined for myself, yet it had become my reality. A month of adjusting to a world where I was not the same person anymore—where I wasn't just an adult with a career chasing after success, but a seven-year-old child, finding his place in the world again. Henry had given me a chance at something I had never known—family.

The house was quiet, save for the soft rustling of pages turning. I sat by the window, looking out at the small garden Henry had tended to for years. It was a peaceful morning, and for the first time in a long while, I allowed myself to just breathe. It wasn't that I was unhappy—far from it—but something about this new life made me reflect deeply. It was strange. In my old life, I had never stopped to really question things. Life had just been about moving forward, always pushing for the next milestone. But now, everything felt different.

Henry's story was woven with the past, full of love, loss, and perseverance. He had lived a long and difficult life, and even now, his quiet strength spoke volumes. Ten years ago, he lost his daughter, Elizabeth. She had been everything to him—his joy, his reason for carrying on. But cancer had taken her from him far too soon. I could only imagine the kind of pain he had gone through. The kind of emptiness that comes from losing a child. But Henry didn't let that define him. Instead, he let books define him. He had spent years surrounded by the old volumes in his shop, each one offering a different world, a different perspective. Books had been his lifeline, a way for him to cope with the unbearable. They had helped him survive, to find solace in stories that gave him hope.

After Elizabeth's passing, Henry dedicated himself to volunteering, to helping others, finding a new purpose in giving. He said that it was in those quiet moments with people who needed a little light that he found peace. Still, he would often wander around the house at night, his mind lost in the memories of his daughter. I could see it in his eyes—the sadness that never fully left him. But there was also love, deep and unwavering. I think that's why he took me in. Maybe he saw something in me that reminded him of Elizabeth. Maybe he just needed to give someone else a chance to feel loved.

I leaned back in my chair, thoughts swirling. This new body own history felt like a distant dream. I never knew my parents. I didn't even know if I had parents who cared for me. I had simply been left at an orphanage as a baby. No name, no identity. Just a child abandoned in a world full of unknowns. When I was old enough to ask questions, all they could tell me was that I had been found at the doorstep of the orphanage, a small bundle with nothing but a note that said, Ethan. The orphanage staff had named me after that, but I often wondered if my name had any meaning at all. Did it belong to me? Was I just a name on a list? Or was there something more to my story that I couldn't remember?

I sighed softly, running my fingers through my hair. Maybe that was the point—maybe I wasn't supposed to know. Maybe I was just meant to live in the present, to focus on what I could change now, in this second chance.

A voice called out from downstairs, interrupting my thoughts.

"Ethan! Breakfast is ready. Come down before I eat it all myself!"

I smiled, standing up and stretching. Henry always had this playful, yet stern way about him. It reminded me of the kind of father I had never had. I made my way downstairs, following the delicious scent of something cooking.

Henry was already at the kitchen table, his eyes lighting up as he saw me. He had this way of making everything feel comfortable, even when things felt unfamiliar.

"Ah, there you are!" He gestured to the seat across from him, where a hearty breakfast was laid out: scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, golden-brown toast, and a steaming cup of coffee. unfortunately the coffee was not for me. I didn't realize how hungry I was until I saw it all.

"Wow, this looks amazing, Henry," I said, taking my seat. "How do you make everything taste so good?"

He chuckled, his eyes sparkling with pride. "Ah, that's my secret. I learned to cook when I was younger. Back in the day, I had to fend for myself, you know. You'd be surprised what you can learn when you have to make your own meals."

I raised an eyebrow. "Really? You're like… a chef or something?"

Henry smiled wryly, his hands folding in front of him. "Well, I wouldn't go that far. But I like to think I've perfected a few dishes over the years. Cooking was one of the things that helped me cope after… well, after everything. It's a simple pleasure, you know?"

I nodded. I understood that. Sometimes, it's the little things that help hold everything together. Like cooking or reading. Like the smell of something comforting when the world feels a little too heavy.

We dug into our breakfast, talking about the day ahead. Henry had been talking non-stop about the bookstore lately. He was excited to show me around, to share his love for the place that had been his life's work. He mentioned how it had been in his family for generations and how proud he was to pass it on. He was eager to see if I'd take an interest in it too. And, in truth, I was excited. The old shop intrigued me. The thought of being surrounded by so many books, each with their own story, felt like a place I could belong.

As we finished eating, Henry wiped his hands on a napkin and looked at me. "You ready for today?" he asked, his voice full of anticipation.

"Definitely," I said with a grin. "I've been waiting to see it."

Henry's face softened, and for a moment, he seemed almost childlike in his excitement. "Good. We'll make a day of it. You'll love it, I promise."

After we cleaned up, Henry led me out to the garage, where his pride and joy awaited. His car, which he often referred to as his "fourth love," sat there—a deep green Porsche 911, its sleek curves catching the light. I couldn't help but admire it. The car was beautiful, old but well-maintained, and it seemed to fit Henry perfectly. He'd told me once that it had been his third love until I came into his life, at which point the car had taken a backseat.

"C'mon, let's go!" Henry said, his face lighting up with that same youthful energy.

I couldn't help but laugh. It was endearing, the way he spoke about the car with such affection. He truly had a way of making everything feel special.

We climbed into the car, the engine roaring to life, and headed toward the shop. I had no idea what awaited me there, but I felt something stir inside me. This new life was just beginning. And somehow, I knew it was going to be everything I needed and more.