“There are volunteers,” Nathan replied softly. “They’ll help him.”
She shook her head.
“No, they won’t.” Her grip tightened. “And Daddy… I think he’s mine.”
Something inside Nathan went still.
He crouched down. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered. “It’s like when Mommy used to hum at night. I didn’t know why. I just knew she was there.”
His throat tightened. His wife had been gone three years. Sophie rarely spoke about her like that.
Laughter swelled too loudly around them. A donor shifted uncomfortably. The event suddenly felt suffocating.
“Excuse us,” Nathan said quietly.
He walked toward the fountain, Sophie’s hand in his. Each step carried a strange, rising unease—not fear, not logic. Something instinctive.
Up close, Nathan noticed details: a faint bruise at the boy’s wrist. The way he sat so still, like someone who had learned not to take up space. His eyes—gray-blue and sharp—felt unnervingly familiar.
“Hi,” Nathan said, kneeling. “What’s your name?”
The boy hesitated. “Owen.”
Sophie let go of Nathan’s hand and sat beside him without hesitation.
“I’m Sophie. That’s my dad.”
Owen looked between them. His shoulders relaxed just slightly.
“Are you here with someone?” Nathan asked.