It was a drawing of a large house with a garden and a piano by the window. Two children held hands in front of it. In one crooked corner, in a young boy’s handwriting, were the words:
Arthur closed his eyes. The little boy’s faith had lived on paper long after hope had faded from the adults around him.
Clara’s shoulders shook with silent sobs. Arthur wiped his eyes, and for the first time in years, the pain didn’t feel empty. It felt like a direction.
Following the Trail of Drawings
When they returned to the mansion, Arthur placed the drawing beside the old portrait. The resemblance, the details, the name—it was no longer just a hope. It was evidence.
The investigator continued digging. A pattern slowly emerged.
A young man named Daniel Lucas had once been treated at a local hospital. He struggled with gaps in his memory and rarely spoke about his past, but he drew constantly: homes, gardens, and pianos.
Arthur and Clara went to that hospital. A tired doctor in his sixties remembered him.
“He never stayed long,” the doctor said softly. “But he was always sketching. He told me once that he was waiting for someone who had promised to come back for him.”
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