The folder contained thirteen pages of handwritten notes, equations that looked like someone had tried to mathematically describe a fever dream, and a single photograph.
The photograph showed two men standing in front of this building. One was Finch, younger by decades but unmistakably the same magnified eyes behind thick glasses. The other was a man with red hair and a jawline I saw every morning in the mirror.
My father looked tired. Not the kind of tired you get from a bad night's sleep. The kind of tired that settles into your bones when you've seen something that rewrote your understanding of reality and now you have to keep living with that knowledge while everyone around you remains blissfully ignorant.
I knew that look. I wore it myself most days.
