The night everything started to mend, Michael stepped out of the grand ballroom of the Imperial Crest Hotel with the same sharp focus he used in business — eyes forward, phone to his ear, already thinking about the next deal.
Behind him, the hotel shimmered in gold light. Laughter floated through the air. Valets hurried. Women in evening gowns posed beneath crystal chandeliers. Michael’s suit was flawless, his watch heavy on his wrist, his voice calm and controlled.
“Yes, finalize it Monday. I want the contract on my desk at eight,” he said evenly.
Beside him walked his seven-year-old son, Ethan, holding his father’s hand. Ethan’s small suit collar scratched his neck. In his other hand, half hidden, he clutched a worn stuffed lion with thinning fur — a relic from a different life, from nights when someone sang him to sleep.
They turned onto a quieter side street. The lights grew dim. The cold pressed harder. Ethan slowed without understanding why. Something tugged at him, something familiar and distant at the same time.
Then he heard it.
A soft voice carried by the wind, humming gently:
“You are my sunshine… my only sunshine…”
Ethan froze.