It was a painting of a young boy—Noah—with soft eyes and a small toy airplane in his hands.
Ethan rarely looked at it. Letting it go would feel like giving up.
Suddenly, Evelyn covered her mouth. Her eyes filled with tears.
“Sir…” she said, her voice shaking. “I know that boy.”
Ethan turned sharply.
“What did you just say?”
“That boy lived where I worked… at a children’s home called St. Vincent’s in Texas. We didn’t know his last name. We called him… Daniel.”
Ethan’s heart stopped.
“Daniel?”
“Yes, sir. And he used to say he had an older brother… who called him ‘my little champ.’”
Ethan froze.
My little champ.
That was exactly what he used to call Noah when they played.
Silence swallowed the hallway.
For a moment, Ethan couldn’t breathe.
“Are you sure?” he asked, barely above a whisper.
Evelyn nodded slowly.
“I never forget a child’s face. I worked there over twenty years. And that boy… he was different.”
“Different how?”
“He believed someone was coming for him,” she said softly. “Every single day. Even after years.”
Ethan felt something crack inside his chest.
“Did he ever say my name?”
“No… but he always said this,” she continued.
Ethan held his breath.