Alex ignored her. He extended his hand toward the girl’s voice.
“What’s your name?”
“Grace,” she said. “Grace Harper.”
“Grace… can you take me to the old kitchen table?”
“Yes, Mr. Whitmore.”
Victoria grabbed his arm. “If you walk away with her, don’t expect to come back. You’ll be alone. Blind. With nothing.”
Alex turned his face toward her, though he couldn’t see her expression.
“I’d rather be blind with the truth,” he said quietly, “than see the world through your lies.”
He let go of her arm and took Grace’s small hand.
The journey that followed felt like stepping into another universe. Instead of tinted windows and quiet chauffeurs, there were bus engines roaring, strangers brushing past him, whispers about the well-dressed blind man covered in dust.
Grace never let go.
“We’re close,” she said.
The pavement turned uneven. Dirt replaced stone. He stumbled more than once, but he didn’t stop.
Then he smelled it.
Garlic. Fresh bread. Something warm.
His childhood.
“Grandma,” Grace called, pushing open a creaking door, “I brought someone.”
Silence.
“Mom?” Alex’s voice cracked.
A spoon clattered. Slow footsteps approached.
“Alexander?” The voice was fragile, older—but unmistakable.