“I’m… your father,” Vincent said. “I—left. A long time ago.” The words sounded thinner than air. Jules blinked. His face went slack. The silence that followed was a vacuum. “Why are you here?” he finally asked. His voice was neutral, but his eyes weren’t. They were storm clouds.
Vincent hesitated, then exhaled hard. “I’m sick,” he said. “Pancreatic necrosis. The doctors say I need surgery, meds… I didn’t know who else to turn to.” He tried to soften the edges, to sound less like a leech. “I’ve been thinking about all of you, over the years. How are they all?”