Behind a nearby headstone stood a boy—thin, dirty, dressed in worn-out clothes, a cap slipping over his eyes. He looked about eight, maybe nine, but his gaze carried far more years than that.
Ethan wiped his face. “Hey… are you lost?”
The boy hesitated, stepping forward slowly, studying him like it was dangerous to speak. When he finally did, his voice was soft.
“Sir… are you crying for them?”
“For who?” Ethan asked, though his chest already tightened.
The boy pointed at the grave. “The twins… right?”
Ethan felt the air leave his lungs. “Yes. Lily and Chloe… my daughters.”
The boy lowered his head. “Sir… don’t cry.”
Pain flickered into irritation. “You don’t understand. My daughters are gone. I can’t just stop.”
The boy looked up, fear clear in his eyes. “They’re not there.”
Everything went still.
“What did you say?”
The boy glanced around nervously. Then, barely above a whisper:
“They’re at the dump.”
Ethan froze. “What?”
The boy stepped back. “I didn’t mean to scare you…”
Ethan stood abruptly, his eyes filled with something impossible—fear and hope tangled together. “Explain. Now.”
The boy swallowed hard. “They’re alive.”