He looked at the boy. The resemblance was undeniable — the same eyes. His eyes.
The silence in the office grew suffocating.
“What is your name?” Victor managed.
“Lucas,” the boy replied.
The truth struck him with brutal clarity.
—
The ride to Brookside felt unreal. Victor’s black limousine crawled through narrow, cracked streets where it did not belong. Neighbors stared openly. Lucas pointed quietly.
“That’s Mr. Howard’s store,” he said. “And that’s where I used to play.”
Victor absorbed everything — peeling paint, children playing with worn soccer balls, the scent of cooking drifting through dusty air. This had been his son’s world.
They stopped at a cramped alley. Lucas pointed to a small room behind a shared courtyard.
“That’s where we lived.”
Inside was a single room: a cot, a table, a few personal belongings. On the nightstand sat a small journal and a letter.
The letter was addressed to him. The handwriting was unmistakably Anna’s, though weaker.
“Victor,” it read, “if you’re reading this, I’m gone. I don’t blame you. You chose your path, and I chose mine. But please, take care of Lucas. He is your son. I always believed you were a good man deep down. Give him the life I couldn’t.”