In his grief, he arranged a memorial service so large and full of flowers that it felt surreal. He mourned deeply, believing he would never hear his daughters’ voices again.
Then, two years later, everything shifted.
“Sir… excuse me?”
He turned, irritated at first. A little girl stood there—thin, with worn shoes and a nervous, apologetic posture.
“What is it?” he asked.
She swallowed hard. “It’s about… these girls.”
Michael frowned. “What about them?”
“They’re not… here,” she said softly. “They live on my street.”
For a moment, the world felt impossibly still.
“What did you say?” The words caught in his throat.
