His tears fell quietly—until he heard small footsteps behind him.
He turned.
A thin boy stood a few feet away, half-hidden behind another grave. He wore clothes too big for him, shoes split at the seams, a cap sliding over one eye. He looked eight, maybe nine. But his eyes were older.
“Sir… are you crying for them?” the boy asked softly.
Daniel wiped his face. “For who?”
The boy pointed at the headstone. “The twins.”
Daniel’s chest tightened. “Yes. My daughters.”
The boy hesitated. “You shouldn’t cry.”
Daniel almost snapped. “You don’t understand. They’re gone.”
The boy swallowed. “They’re not there.”
The words struck like ice water.
“What did you say?”
The boy glanced around nervously. “Sir… your daughters are alive.”
Daniel stood abruptly. “Explain.”
“They’re at the dump.”
For a moment, the world tilted. “What?”
“I search for food there,” the boy rushed on. “Months ago, I heard crying. Two little girls. Same names as on the bracelets they were wearing. Lily and Rose.”
Daniel felt the air leave his lungs. “Hospital bracelets?”
The boy nodded. “They were wrapped in dirty blankets. I’ve been bringing them bread… water. I hide them so no one sees.”
“Living… in a dump?” Daniel whispered.