Ethan spent hours by the living-room window, sitting in a padded chair.
He watched dogs being walked. Kids splashing in rain puddles. Leaves chasing the wind.
Sometimes his small fingers pressed against the glass.
Sometimes he smiled.
Mostly, he just looked tired.
Michael noticed.
He just kept telling himself: later.
The Door Left Open
That afternoon, Michael was mid–video call when the nanny burst into his office, pale and shaking.
“Mr. Carter… Ethan’s gone.”
The chair crashed behind him as Michael stood.
Every room. Every hallway. His son’s name echoing back unanswered.
Then he saw it.
The front door.
Open.
Rain pouring down the steps.
His chest tightened with terror as he ran outside.
And then he stopped.
The Puddle
In the middle of the driveway sat Ethan — right in a wide, muddy puddle.
His forearm crutches lay abandoned in the water. Pajamas soaked. Hair plastered to his forehead.
But Ethan wasn’t crying.
He was laughing.
Laughing the way children do when they forget to be afraid.
Beside him knelt another boy — maybe eight years old. Barefoot. Hoodie drenched. Knees streaked with mud.
The boy held Ethan steady with calm hands.
“What are you doing?” Michael shouted, panic sharp in his voice.