In Ethan’s other hand was a worn little stuffed lion. Small, soft from years of hugging, with an old seam across its belly. It didn’t belong with marble floors or camera flashes. It came from another life—one that smelled like fresh bread, where a gentle voice sang before bedtime. A voice Ethan could still hear if he closed his eyes tightly… though the face attached to it slipped away like water through his fingers.
They turned onto a side street. It felt like crossing a border: fewer lights, more wind, a silence made of puddles and darkened signs. Ethan slowed without realizing it. Something tugged at his chest—a strange feeling, like when the heart recognizes something before the mind does.
And then he heard it.
“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine…”
It wasn’t loud. Just a thin thread of sound, nearly swallowed by the wind, but perfectly timed, a whisper that seemed to stroke the air. Ethan stopped.