He grew up in a home filled with music and books. His father was a respected attorney; his mother, a gentle piano teacher who believed every problem sounded softer when a melody was playing. Little Lucas followed Arthur everywhere, calling him “my champion” in a small, proud voice.
They had gone to the park. There were families, balloons, the smell of popcorn in the air. A nanny watched Lucas while Arthur chased a kite.
By the time the kite string slipped from Arthur’s fingers and he turned back, Lucas was gone.
Search teams combed the area. Flyers went up. Their father spoke to anyone who would listen. Their mother sat by the piano, hands folded in her lap, waiting for news that never came.
Days turned to weeks. The house grew quiet. The piano lid stayed shut.
On top of it, a photograph of Lucas—smiling, holding Arthur’s hand—began to yellow with time.
Arthur grew up, went to college, and built a powerful company. People looked at him and saw success. What they could not see was the promise he’d once made to himself as a frightened eight-year-old boy:
One day, somehow, I will find my brother.
The Cleaning Lady with a Hidden Story
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