It was the same voice. The same gentle pause before “sunshine.”
Michael’s chest tightened painfully.
He opened the accident report from five years ago. Rain-slick bridge. Car crushed. Olivia missing. Presumed dead. No body recovered.
One detail stood out now:
Severe impact on passenger side. Glass fragmentation consistent with facial lacerations.
Glass. Scar.
He closed the laptop slowly.
“What if…” he whispered.
The next day he returned.
No suit this time. Just a simple coat and a cup of hot tea in his hands. He approached slowly and set the cup near her without crowding her.
“I knew someone,” he said gently, “who used to sing that song.”
She stiffened slightly but didn’t look at him fully.
“Do you have a child?” he asked carefully.
A long silence.
“Yes,” she whispered. “His name is… Ethan.”
The air left his lungs.
“I lost him,” she continued, staring at the bear. “But I hear him crying in my dreams.”
“He’s real,” Michael said softly. “And he misses you.”
Two nights later, when he returned with food and a warm blanket, he found police officers telling her to move along. The stroller had tipped over; the bear lay in a puddle.
“Sir, she can’t block the sidewalk,” one officer said.