Almost a year later, I traveled to another city for a work meeting. Life had slowly forced itself forward—work, grocery shopping, Sunday calls with my sister—but the absence of my son followed me everywhere.
After the meeting ended, I stopped at a small café and ordered coffee.
While waiting at the counter, the door opened behind me.
An elderly man walked in slowly, bundled against the cold. He counted coins in his palm, looking as though he might not have eaten much lately.
Then I noticed his jacket.
My heart stopped.
He was wearing Ethan’s jacket.
Not one like it—the exact one Ethan had worn the day he disappeared.
I knew because of the guitar-shaped patch covering a torn sleeve. I had sewn that patch myself. There was also a faint blue paint stain across the back.
I turned to the barista.
“Please add that man’s tea and a bun to my order.”
The barista nodded.
The old man turned toward me with a grateful smile.
“Thank you, ma’am, that’s very—”
“Where did you get that jacket?”
He looked down at it.
“A boy gave it to me.”
My pulse raced.
“Brown hair? About sixteen?”
He nodded.