All he could hear… was his daughter’s voice.
Soft. Tight. Urgent.
“Dad,” Lily said again, gripping his hand. “She has the same birthmark as you.”
They stood beneath a crowded overpass in downtown New York—a place where no one ever really stopped.
Food carts lined the sidewalk, steam rising into the cold afternoon air.
A man shouted about hot dogs and pretzels.
A woman pushed a cart stacked with bottled water, calling out prices like a chant.
People rushed past, eyes forward, too busy to notice anything beyond their own lives.
And there… near a stained concrete pillar…
Sat an elderly woman.
Small. Frail. Almost invisible.
Her clothes were worn thin, her hands trembling as she held one out.
“Please… anything helps… I haven’t eaten…” she murmured.
No one stopped.
No one looked.
Until Lily did.
Her eyes locked onto the woman’s wrist.
A small mark—dark, curved, shaped like a leaf—rested just above her pulse.
Lily’s breath caught.
She had seen that mark before.
Countless times.
On her father’s wrist.
When he rolled up his sleeves at dinner.
When he tucked her in at night.
When he held her hand—just like now.
“Dad…” she whispered.
Ethan followed her gaze.
And when he saw it…
The world tilted.