That morning, wearing the same creased overcoat that once carried the scent of costly cologne and now only smelled of exhaustion, he stacked the back seat of his car with MISSING posters.
He drove far beyond the polished streets of his gated community. He crossed into neighborhoods he had never walked through before—tight alleyways, small houses with chipped paint, faces that studied him with quiet suspicion.
He was taping another poster to a light pole when he heard a soft voice behind him.
“Sir… that boy lives in my house.”
Victor’s hand froze mid-motion.
Slowly, he turned.
A little girl stood there barefoot, her faded dress brushing against dusty pavement. Her eyes were large and steady.
“What did you say?” he asked, barely above a whisper.
She stepped closer and pointed at the photograph on the poster.
“That boy. He stays with me and my mom.”
Victor felt his pulse thunder in his ears.
“Are you certain?” he asked, his knees weakening.
The girl pulled the paper slightly toward herself and examined the picture.
“Yes. He doesn’t talk much. He just sits and draws.”
Before Victor could respond, she ran down the street. Seconds later she returned, clutching a wrinkled sheet of paper.