Hunched over, his sweaty hands on his knees, he pants heavily. The run to the door had taken much out of him. He hears the clicking of the door knob, the sound of a squeaking door hinge, so his eyes dart up. And there stands the man he came to see, father, the raven hair barely brushed back, the eyebrows furrowed in confusion, the lines round his mouth revealing past joys, but the thing the son could not look away from, was the eyes. Older, much older than he remembered them, much older than they ought to be considering the years past, stamped with hollow grief, stamped furthermore, with something that can only be described as a lack. The son takes a step back, straightening himself yet somehow looking more weakened than before. The tired look in his eyes turns to one of humiliation, remorse, he looks down at his clothes, suddenly aware of the dirt on him, the sweat, the inadequacy. He looks back at the father, whose eyes have widened his eyebrows still furrowed, the son shakes his head and then lowers it, tears forming in his eyes, he slumps his shoulders, and as he begins to take another step back, the man at the door, the father, slams into him, his arms wrapping around the son. At first it is almost violent, then inimitably tender, tears stream down the fathers face. The son stands in the embrace, unmoving. A moment later he lets out a cry, a breaking sound, from the deepest part of his stomach, and he wraps his arms around the father, tightening the grip, deepening the hug, he cries into his father shoulder, he clutches the shirt on his back, he will never take that hug for granted again. For a moment the father pulls away taking his sons face in his hands, this time when the son looks into his eyes, the lines around his mouth tell no past joys but the present one, and his eyes are full. Filled to the brim.