Ethan was not the kind of man who walked. He was chauffeured, trailed by assistants, the city bending around him. But today, his fiancée, Isabella Moore, insisted they walk the last few blocks.

“The light is too perfect to waste,” she teased, tugging his arm.

Halfway down the street, Isabella suddenly froze. Her nails dug into Ethan’s sleeve.

“Ethan… don’t look right away. Across the road. That boy.”

Ethan turned.

A thin, barefoot child sat on a stone ledge, knees drawn up, pale hair falling over sharp features. A dimple cut into his cheek. But it was his eyes—deep, ocean blue—that made Ethan’s breath hitch. He knew those eyes.

His wife’s eyes. His son’s eyes.

He hadn’t seen them in twelve years. Not since his little boy, Nathan, vanished in a crowded park at age five.

Posters had come down, calls had stopped, but Ethan had never surrendered. Nathan’s room remained untouched—bed unmade, toy cars still lined neatly as if waiting.

Isabella whispered, “He looks like—”

“My son,” Ethan finished, voice raw.

They approached cautiously. Isabella crouched. “Sweetheart, are you alright?”

The boy’s voice cracked. “I’m fine.”

Ethan knelt, throat tightening. “What’s your name?”

The child hesitated. “…Nathan.”

The world tilted. His son’s name.

Before Ethan could speak, the boy’s gaze shot to the end of the block. A tall man in a worn leather jacket glared back, his voice like gravel.

“You! Back to work!”