Weeks turned into months. Alexander didn’t stop. He funded mobile clinics that traveled to the poorest districts, not just for treatment but to ask the same question: “Do you know a boy named Jamal? Small, quiet, carries a cloth bag?” He printed flyers with a simple drawing (since no clear photo existed): a child’s silhouette holding a stone, the words beneath reading only “Thank you.”
He never offered a reward. He didn’t want to turn gratitude into a transaction. He just wanted to say the words in person.
One rainy afternoon in late spring, almost five months after the incident, Alexander sat on a plastic stool outside a tiny community health post in the old industrial quarter. He had been there for hours, handing out free medicine kits and quietly asking the same question.
A girl no older than seven tugged at his sleeve. She pointed across the muddy street to a narrow alley.
“He sometimes sits there when it rains. Under the blue tarp. With the stone.”
Alexander’s heart lurched. He stood, cane forgotten, and walked—slowly, carefully—into the alley.