Marc Caldwell wasn’t used to walking. He was the kind of man who arrived in a chauffeur-driven car, flanked by attendants, and the city moved around him as if it were already there. But today was different. His fiancée, Victoria Hayes, insisted he walk the last few miles to her home; something about the summer light was “too perfect to waste.”

She was walking halfway down the street when Victoria suddenly froze. Her hand dug into Marc’s arm, nails pressing into his hand.

— Marcus — susurró — don’t look immediately… but there’s a boy sitting across the street.

Marc followed her gaze.

The boy was barefoot, perched on the edge of the stone curb, his knees pressed to his chest. He had a thin, tapering face, light hair, and a dimple on his left cheek — a detail Marc had etched into his memory like a scar. His eyes, however, made Marc forget how to act: deep blue, like the ocean. Just like his late wife’s.

I hadn’t seen those eyes in twelve years.

From the day his five-year-old son disappeared from a crowded park.

Victoria’s voice was barely a whisper.

“It seems…”

“My son,” Marc finished; the words tasted of rust.

The police had stopped calling years ago. Search parties vanished. The missing posters were replaced by other faces. But Marc stopped. He saw the boy’s room exactly as it had been: the bed unmade, toy cars still lined up on the bookshelf, as if his son could walk through the door at any moment.

And now… there he was. Or was it?

Victoria approached first, crouching down in front of the boy.

“Honey, are you okay?”

The boy barely looked up.

“I’m fine,” he murmured, his voice rocky, as if he hadn’t spoken in days.

—What’s your name? —Marc asked, throat clenched.

The boy said:

“…Daniel.”

Marc’s heart pounded. His son’s name was Daniel.

Before Marc could speak again, Daniel’s gaze shifted to the street. A tall man in a worn leather jacket had emerged from an alley, his face strained.

“You!” the man barked. “Get back to work!”

Daniel jumped to his feet and ran off. The man chased him. And Marc, acting without thought, ran after them both.

The boy was quick, darting between pedestrians, weaving down side streets. Marc’s legs burned, but the pain in his chest burned more. He had already lost his son once. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, lose him again.

Daniel slipped through a side door of a lowered warehouse. By the time Marc reached him, the heavy metal door slammed shut. Inside, muffled voices echoed.

“If you talk to strangers again, you’ll regret it,” the man growled.

Daniel’s voice broke. A loud thud followed.

Marc’s blood ran cold. He hit the door.

“Open it! Now!”

The door opened just enough for the man to peer out, surprised.

“Come on, rich man. This boy is mine.”

“So what the hell is that legal?” Marc’s voice was low and dangerous.

“He works for me. He pays his own way,” the man smirked.

“It’s a little thing,” Marc snapped. “And it’s all done.”

Victoria was already on the phone with the police. Distant sirens echoed in the street. The man’s gaze flicked nervously.

Marc pushed the door open. Daniel staggered toward him, clutching his side. Despite himself, Marc hugged him.

—Take it easy, son, — he whispered. —You’re safe now.

The boy did not pull away.

At the station, Daniel sat covered in blood, avoiding everyone’s gaze. When the officer asked his full name, he paused, then looked directly at Marc.

“I think it’s Caldwell,” he said quietly. “Daa…”

Marc’s chest tightened. He didn’t dare breathe as the detective pulled him aside.

“We found a report of a missing child from twelve years ago. Everything matches. We’ll confirm with DNA, but, Mr. Caldwell… I think you found your son.”

The next day, DNA results confirmed it: Daniel was his son.

The boy’s old room was exactly as he had left it: soft blue walls, model cars, Lego towers. Daniel’s eyes widened.

Marc’s voice broke:

“I told myself nothing would change until you came home.”

The boy crossed the room and hugged him, tight, desperate, trembling. Marc closed his eyes, holding him as if to make up for every lost second.