That promise carried him through nights when hope felt thin.
But when Daniel finally saw the house through the drizzle, his steps faltered.
It looked abandoned. Windows shattered. The porch sagging. The yard—once full of roses and basil and bright sunflowers—buried in weeds.
“No,” he whispered. “She wouldn’t let it fall apart.”
Fear crept in. Something had happened. And no one had told him.
He moved closer. The fence leaned crooked. The front door swayed slightly in the wind with a hollow squeak.
Then he heard movement inside.
Daniel’s body reacted instantly, instincts sharpened by prison—observe first, move second. He crouched behind the old mango tree still standing stubbornly in the yard.
The door creaked open.
A little girl stepped out. Ten, maybe eleven. Tangled hair, oversized sweatshirt, dirt on her cheeks. She clutched a worn doll with one eye missing.
They stared at each other.
“Who are you?” she asked, trying to sound fearless.
Daniel slowly raised his hands. “I was about to ask you that,” he said gently. “This is my grandmother’s house.”
Her eyes dropped to the flash of orange beneath his jacket.
“You just get outta jail?”
He swallowed. “Yeah. But I’m not here to hurt anyone.”