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Edwin’s heart was still pounding. He couldn’t seem to make himself respond. He knew what he wanted to say. But the words were stuck in his throat, blocked by a swell of fear and uncertainty and by so many years of confusion and shame and pretending.

You’re the spitting image of him.

Mr. Cooper’s voice rang in his head. And then, so did his own.

I look like my father.

All of the sudden, Edwin found himself thinking about the portrait Andrew had brought over to him during the snowstorm. Only a few months back, he had been struggling so much with his confidence. He’d been struggling to find himself and to become the man he so desperately wanted to be. But so much had changed ever since meeting Andrew.

Back when he had first chopped off his hair, he’d had the fleeting thought that he looked a little like his father. But for the longest time, he’d half convinced himself that he’d been imagining it. Now, though, he saw it. No. He felt it. Hell, he knew it.

With Edwin’s next breath, he let the realization take hold in his mind. And then, he let it bloom.

“I am,” Edwin said with conviction. “Actually, I’m his son.”

His stomach jumped upon hearing the confidence—the certainty—in his own voice.

“Ah, I was right, then,” Mr. Cooper said with a wink and a smile. “I never forget a face. You really do look just like him.”

Lifting his chin high, Edwin smiled in return. “Thank you. I think so too.”

Mr. Cooper transferred his pickaxe from one hand to the other.

“Great shop, your father had,” he said. “I bought myself a suit there once, when I lived up that way, and I had your father make a suit for my youngest son, too. Church clothes, you know? But when I was over in that neighborhood a few weeks back, I noticed he must have closed it.”

Edwin reached up to rub the back of his neck, his stomach clenching.

“He . . . passed away.”

“Ah, I’m sorry to hear that.” Mr. Cooper frowned and shook his head, but then his face brightened a bit. “Do you happen to have a shop?”

“No,” Edwin said with a brief shake of his head. “I’ve . . . thought about opening one, though.”

“Well, if you’re even half as talented of a tailor as your old man was, you’d find plenty of customers.”

“Definitely,” Andrew cut in. “I, uhm, I never had the chance to meet Edwin’s father, but Edwin really is a skilled tailor. He made me a suit recently. And I love it. It’s the best one I own or have ever owned. By far.”

Chest swelling with pride, Edwin threw Andrew a nod to thank him for the compliment.

Mr. Cooper said, “All right, well, when you open your shop, I hope you’ll come by to tell me. You’ll have my business for sure as soon as I need anything altered.”

“I will,” Edwin said. “Thank you, by the way. For your encouragement.”

“You’re very welcome.” He lifted his chin in the direction of the wall of snow. “I think we better start on making a tunnel now. Get you fellows home by nightfall.”

“We’re making a tunnel?” Andrew asked, reeling back slightly.

“I can’t imagine we can clear a path here otherwise,” Mr. Cooper said with a chortle.

Edwin and Andrew looked at each other and shrugged.

“Let’s . . . make a tunnel, then,” Edwin said, huffing a light laugh.

He and Andrew moved aside to let the other men pass. Mr. Cooper swung his pickaxe, breaking off a few chunks of snow, and then the other two men shoveled those chunks off to the side. Edwin started over to them so that he could help, too, but Andrew caught his arm before he could reach them.

“You’d make a wonderful tailor, Edwin,” he said. “I wanted to make sure you knew that.”

“Thanks.” Edwin’s stomach swirled, and warmth bloomed on his cheeks. “I do.”