The aroma of freshly printed pages filled Arthur’s study. He straightened, smoothed down his tweed jacket, and surveyed the miniature railway kingdom he’d meticulously crafted over decades. His son, little Timothy, used to barely glance at it. Now? Timothy, barely tall enough to reach the control panel, spent hours meticulously adjusting the signal lights. Arthur chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. *Just as it should be.* He’d always known the allure of model trains was in the blood.
A rhythmic click-clack echoed from the tracks. Arthur watched as Timothy, brow furrowed in concentration, maneuvered a vintage locomotive around a hairpin turn. He allowed a slight, knowing smile to play on his lips. He’d taught him well, the intricacies of track layout, the historical significance of each engine.
“Almost got it, Dad!” Timothy squealed, his voice cracking with excitement. Arthur nodded, his gaze lingering on the expertly crafted scenery. He’d spent years perfecting the miniature forest, the handcrafted bridges. Now, the boy appreciated it all. He thought, with a slight inward tightening of his chest, *I have done well.*