Returning to his car, he found the interior had become a casualty of the downpour. Yet, by some miracle, the engine roared to life without a hitch.

An hour of battling the tempest later, Mark was at Cecilia's doorstep.

The servant, a mix of surprise and relief, greeted him, "Mr. Evans, you must change!"

Ignoring the plea, Mark strode with purpose toward Edwin's bedroom.

"Let me see Edwin first," was all he said.

The servant trailed behind Mark.

Upon entering, Mark's eyes met with Edwin, sprawled on the bed, his little face flushed.

A thermometer was perched at the bed's head.

Scooping it up, Mark placed it under the boy's armpit, his voice edged with concern.

“How high did his fever get?"

"39 degrees Celsius," came the heavy reply.

A lump formed in Mark's throat.

He wiped his hands, his touch as gentle as a feather when he reached for Edwin's forehead. Maybe it was the coolness of his hand, but Edwin seemed to find solace there, nuzzling closer the moment he opened his eyes.

In a weak, warbling tone, Edwin whispered, "Great uncle."

Confusion knit the servant's brows.

With a tender chuckle, she corrected, “Edwin, sweetheart, you're mistaken. This is your father."

But clarity didn't return to Edwin's eyes.

Nestling his face into the cool cradle of Mark's hand, he murmured again, “Great uncle."

A pang of sorrow struck Mark's heart.

Despite grappling with his turmoil, he summoned every ounce of gentleness, caressing Edwin's feverish brow before easing the thermometer from its hold.