To see his daughters stand.
One cold afternoon, his car stopped at a red light downtown. As he sat in the back seat, distracted and exhausted, there was a soft tap against the window.
He looked up.
A small girl stood there—thin, pale, wrapped in a coat too big for her. Her hair was tangled, her cheeks flushed from the cold, but her eyes… her eyes were bright.
The driver rolled the window down slightly and handed her a sandwich.
Maya accepted it with both hands, as if it were something precious.
Then she looked straight at Alexander and said gently, “God will take care of your daughters. They’ll be okay.”
The car drove off.
But Alexander didn’t move.
His heart skipped.
No one in that part of the city knew about his daughters.
No one.
A few days later, something pulled him back to that moment.
He took Charlotte and Isabelle to a quiet park near the museum. The air was crisp, and the trees swayed gently in the wind. As he watched his daughters sitting side by side, he noticed a familiar figure nearby.
It was her.
Maya sat on a low stone wall, swinging her legs slightly, as if she had nowhere else to be.
Something in him stirred—curiosity, maybe even hope, though he barely dared to name it.