“Did you just hit my car?”
The boy swallows hard.
“I… I’m sorry…”
The words barely come out.
The man walks forward.
Measured steps across the grass.
No rush.
He bends slightly.
Picks up the ball.
Turns it in his hand.
Camera CLOSE-UP—
faded writing on the surface.
Worn.
Old.
The man freezes.
Completely.
“…this isn’t possible…”
The words slip out.
Quiet.
But heavy.
The boy takes a small step forward.
“That’s my ball…”
The man looks at him now—
really looks.
“Where did you get it?”
“My mom gave it to me…”
Silence tightens again.
The air shifts.
Music rising underneath—slow, dark.
The man’s grip tightens slightly on the ball.
“What’s your mother’s name?”
The boy looks up.
Honest.
Unaware of what he’s about to break open.
“She said… if someone recognizes it…”
A small pause.
The wind moves the grass around them.
The boy’s voice softens.
“…he’s my real father.”
