One white line near Daniel’s arm began fading.
Hammer noticed.
He called Noah.
“Emergency.”
Rachel nearly had a heart attack.
“What happened?”
“The artwork.”
She stared at him over the phone.
“I dislike you.”
“Noted.”
They drove over.
Noah inspected the tank.
His face fell.
“It's disappearing.”
Hammer handed him the white marker.
“Then fix it.”
Noah stared.
“Can I?”
Hammer shrugged.
“Artist maintains his own work.”
Noah traced the fading line.
Then corrected another.
The drawing changed.
His hand was steadier now.
He added more detail.
Daniel’s beard improved.
Hammer watched quietly.
Rachel realized something.
The picture would never remain exactly as eight-year-old Noah drew it.
That had been Daniel's point.
Memory could be touched again.
Redrawn.
Reinterpreted.
It did not have to be preserved under glass.
At thirteen, Noah stopped drawing for almost a year.
Teenage embarrassment arrived.
Motorcycles became less interesting than basketball and video games.
Hammer did not push.
He attended games instead.
He sat beside Rachel in bleachers that barely tolerated his size.
Other parents initially stared.
Then learned Hammer brought excellent snacks.
Noah sometimes ignored him in front of friends.
Hammer never took it personally.
Rachel did.
“He barely said hello.”
“He's thirteen.”
“He loves you.”
“I know.”
“He could act like it.”
Hammer smiled.
“Don't make him perform affection.”
Rachel looked at him.
“That sounded suspiciously wise.”
“I heard it from a dying man.”
She stopped.
“Daniel?”
Hammer nodded.
Rachel smiled.
“Of course.”
At fourteen, Noah became angry.
Not general teenage anger.
Specific anger.
At Daniel.
It started after a father-son school event.
Rachel offered to attend.
Noah refused.
Hammer offered too.
Noah shouted:
“You’re not my dad.”
Silence filled the kitchen.
Hammer did not flinch.
“No.”
He nodded.
“I’m not.”
Noah immediately looked ashamed.
Hammer picked up his jacket.
“I’ll see you next week.”
Rachel stood.
“Hammer.”
He shook his head.
“Let him have it.”
Noah shouted after him:
“I didn't mean it!”
Hammer turned.
“Yes, you did.”
The boy’s face crumpled.
Hammer continued gently.
“And you're allowed.”
Then he left.
Noah cried that night.
Not because he had hurt Hammer.
Because he had finally said something he had carried for years.
Daniel should have been there.
Not Hammer.
Not Rachel.
Daniel.
The next Saturday, Hammer arrived as usual.
Noah barely looked at him.