Nathan Cole sat slumped in the leather armchair of his office, surrounded by quiet walls and expensive furniture that had long since lost their meaning. Above the fireplace hung a portrait of his wife, Lauren, her soft smile seeming to follow him even from beyond the grave.
Two years had passed since the accident everyone said had killed her.
Two years of flowers on an empty grave.
Two years of sleepless nights spent talking to a photograph.
He lifted his glass of whiskey more out of habit than desire. Nothing had flavor anymore.
The silence in the room was so heavy it felt like it had weight—until a voice sliced through it like a knife.
“Sir… she’s alive. I saw that woman.”
For a second, Nathan thought his mind was playing tricks on him. He turned, irritated, toward the office door.
There, standing in the doorway, was a boy of about ten. He was trembling, covered in dust, clothes torn and stained. In his hands he clutched a battered baseball cap like it was all he owned.
“What did you just say, kid?” Nathan asked, frowning.
The boy swallowed hard but kept his eyes on Nathan’s face.