It was the heart of winter’s eve, and my partner, Alex, and I were in a delightful flurry, prepping our little cottage for a festive gathering of cherished friends. Amidst the cheerful chaos, my gaze drifted to a forgotten photo album, and there it was—a snapshot of my parents, so young and vibrant, lost in a moment of pure joy.
My father, bless his adventurous spirit, vanished from my life when I was merely eight years old, a sudden void I never truly understood. Three years later, my mother, with a heart too gentle for this world, simply gave out. After that, my childhood became a string of temporary homes, each a new family trying to fill a space that could never quite be filled.
Then, a soft but insistent rap echoed through the quiet house. I opened the door, and there, bathed in the dim glow of the porch light, stood a young boy, no older than thirteen. He looked utterly spent, his small frame shivering against the biting cold. His eyes, though, held a flicker of intense determination as he spoke, his voice barely a whisper: “I’ve finally located you!”
My eyes instinctively fell to his outstretched hand, and my breath caught in my throat. Clasped tightly in his numb fingers was a braided wristband—one I’d meticulously crafted for my dad when I was a tiny six-year-old, overflowing with childlike devotion.
“Who… who are you?” I managed to stammer, my own voice trembling, a wave of disbelief washing over me.
