Vendors shouted about shaved ice and roasted nuts, a street musician played softly near a fountain wrapped in climbing flowers, and visitors snapped photos as water sparkled in the heat. It was the kind of afternoon that felt predictable, safe, and unremarkable.
That was what Lauren Whitmore had always believed. She stood near a bench, her five-year-old son Noah leaning against her leg. They had come for a small treat and a breath of air, a break from overdue bills and her long shifts at the café. Noah cradled his blue raspberry ice like treasure, syrup staining his fingers.
He stared toward the fountain and said quietly, “Mom. He’s there. The boy from my dreams.”
Lauren smiled, assuming he meant a performer. “Who, honey? Someone from school?”
Noah shook his head. “No. He was with me before I was born. We were together.”
Her chest tightened. “That’s not how it works, sweetheart.”
Noah slipped from her grasp and pointed. Near the fountain, a boy about his age knelt beside a battered box of cheap trinkets. His clothes were worn thin, shoes splitting at the toes. Sunlight caught in his sandy curls. And his face—