At forty-eight, he thought nothing could shake him anymore. Yet here it was—that mark—standing in front of the city’s elite, more powerful than anything money could buy.
“What’s your name?” Daniel asked, stepping forward. The guards hesitated. Vanessa frowned. “Daniel, not here.” But he ignored her.
The woman slowly lifted her face, cautious, as if expecting mockery. Her skin was weathered, her lips dry, her eyes clouded with exhaustion. “My name is Margaret Lewis,” she said quietly.
The name hit him hard.
“Did you ever live in Chicago?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
She blinked. “Yes… many years ago. Near a market downtown.”
Daniel swallowed, his heart pounding. He felt Emily gripping his hand tightly. The crowd was growing. Cameras were recording. Still, he asked the question that mattered most.
“Did you have a son?”
The woman froze. For a moment, she didn’t respond. Then her face changed, as if something buried deep inside had cracked open.
“Yes,” she said, her voice trembling. “I had a boy. I lost him in a market. He was five years old. His name was Daniel.”