A five-year-old, who goes by the name of Kian, sits close by the chair of his faithful uncle, who bears that same name.
“My tooth is wobbly,” the little boy giggles, putting down the sticky chocolate bar and poking a finger into the gap.
“How are you going to get it out?” The old man laughs.
“By wobbling some more!” Kian’s grey eyes flash triumphantly when he speaks and punches his fist into the air.
“Okay...” The uncle continues laughing and lifts out a hand to ruffle the short brown hair.
Toy soldiers lie discarded in the background, casting small shadows on the arm-chair which the mutilated war-veteran sits in. Young Kian will decide the fate of this war, as old Kian has done in times before. The uncle watches the little boy as he runs out to tell the mother he adores everything that would interest only a five-year-old. The boy never tires of the endless, simple information that is spouted in his direction from TV.
Old Kian’s face grows un-amused and weary; when he talks, there is sourness in his voice.
“If only your father were here to see how, every day, we grow more and more alike...”