For years, Natsu had downloaded it because it was the closest thing to a photograph he’d ever have. He’d stare at it after every battle, every failure, every night the phantom pain of loss ached in his chest. It was his anchor.

There, standing translucent yet solid in the middle of the hall, was the scene from the wallpaper. The young Natsu. And Igneel.

“Still that wallpaper?” she asked softly, sitting beside him. “You could get a newer one. Happy took a great shot of you, Gray, and Erza fighting that giant Vulcan last week.”

“I did not leave you, my son. I made you. Every flame you conjure is my roar. Every friend you protect is my scale. You are not a boy who lost a dragon. You are the dragon who became a man.”

But this wasn't a static image. The pixelated tear from the dragon’s eye grew bright, then floated forward. It drifted through the air and stopped right in front of the real, adult Natsu.

“A tear of memory,” a voice boomed—Igneel’s voice, but softer, like an echo through time. “You have been searching for me not in the world, but in your heart. And you have finally found the truth.”