— How long have you been here? — he asked, reining in the sharpness in his voice.
— I don’t know, — Noah whispered, wrapping his thin arms around himself.
— And where are your parents? — Andrew pressed, but the boy just kept silent, his gaze fixed on the ground.
Andrew’s patience wore thin, but instead of pushing further, he let out a heavy sigh. Standing in the middle of a cemetery interrogating a freezing child made no sense. He had to act.
— Come with me, — he said curtly.
Noah’s eyes widened in surprise.
— Where?
— Someplace warm, — Andrew replied, offering no more details.
The boy hesitated, his fingers tightening around the photograph.
— You won’t take it from me? — he asked softly, nodding toward the picture.
Andrew glanced at the photo of Eleanor and handed it back to Noah. The boy grabbed it with both hands as if it were his last treasure. Andrew then bent down and easily lifted the small child into his arms—he was as light as a feather, a fact that disturbed Andrew even more. Without another word, he turned and walked toward the cemetery exit.
This time, as he left Eleanor’s grave, Andrew felt something new. He was leaving behind not only her memory but also the certainty that he had ever truly known her at all. And that scared him more than he was willing to admit.
Andrew’s old Honda Accord moved through the snow-dusted streets of Chicago in complete silence. Noah sat in the back, pressed against the window, watching the city lights with wide eyes, as if seeing such a spectacle for the first time. Andrew, gripping the steering wheel, cast short glances at him in the rearview mirror. The entire situation felt like a surreal dream—a strange boy with a photograph of his dead wife, a children’s home he knew nothing about, a secret that was tearing apart his entire perception of Eleanor.
He took a deep breath, trying to compose himself. He needed answers.
— How did you get to the cemetery? — he asked, breaking the silence.
Noah was quiet for a few seconds before answering softly, — I walked.
Andrew shot him a disbelieving look in the mirror.
— From where?
— From the home, — the boy shrugged.
Andrew gripped the wheel tighter.
— And how did you know where Eleanor was buried?
Noah hugged his knees, as if trying to make himself smaller.
— I followed her once, — he whispered.
A cold dread washed over Andrew.
— You spied on Eleanor?
The boy nodded slowly.
— She used to come to the home. She’d bring candy and tell us stories. I wanted to go with her, but she said she couldn’t take me.
Something inside Andrew fractured. He pictured Eleanor, standing in a cramped room at the children’s home with a bag of sweets, smiling at this boy. Why hadn’t she told him?
— One day, I saw her leaving the home, and she looked very sad, — Noah continued, his head bowed. — I followed her to see what was wrong. She came here, to the cemetery. She stood for a long time, crying, talking to someone at another grave. After she left, I stayed behind. I knew her name, and I found her stone.
The hair on Andrew’s arms stood on end. Of course. Eleanor had died five years ago. It couldn’t have been her own grave. He clenched his jaw, trying to piece together the fragmented story.
— And I’ve been coming here ever since, — Noah finished, his voice barely audible.
A heavy silence filled the car. Andrew’s mind raced. If the boy wasn’t lying, then Eleanor had been visiting the grave of someone else shortly before her own death. Someone so important to her that she wept at their grave. And he had absolutely no idea who that could be.
He didn’t know his own wife. The thought struck him like a slap. Andrew took a deep breath and changed the subject.
— I’m taking you somewhere you can rest, — he said, his eyes fixed on the road.
Noah looked at him cautiously.
— Where?
— To a hotel, — Andrew answered shortly.
The boy’s eyes widened.
— Like in the movies on TV?
Andrew felt a pang of discomfort.
— Just a hotel. Nothing special.
Noah didn’t seem convinced but didn’t argue.
— And what happens then? — he asked quietly.
Andrew kept his gaze on the road.
— Tomorrow, I’m going to the children’s home. I’m going to find out what the connection was between you and Eleanor.
Noah pressed his lips together and turned back to the window. Andrew could tell the boy knew more but wasn’t ready to talk. He tightened his grip on the wheel. «Tomorrow, I’ll find out the truth,» he thought, his heart pounding with a mixture of anticipation and fear.
The next morning, Andrew awoke with a heavy feeling in his chest. He sat at the kitchen table in his Lincoln Park apartment, holding a cup of strong, now-cold coffee. Noah was asleep in the guest room. Andrew had initially taken him to a small hotel nearby the night before, but it had felt too cold and impersonal for the situation, so he had ultimately brought the boy home.
He glanced at the clock—eight in the morning. Today, he had to go to the children’s home and get to the bottom of everything. But first, he needed to talk to Noah. Andrew stood, placed the cup in the sink, and walked to the boy’s room. The door was slightly ajar, and through the crack, he saw Noah sitting on the bed, holding the same photograph of Eleanor.
— Good morning, — Andrew said, knocking lightly on the doorframe.
Noah flinched and looked up.
— Morning, — he replied softly, rubbing his eyes.
— Did you sleep well? — Andrew asked, trying to sound casual.
The boy shrugged.
— I’m not used to such a big bed.
Andrew felt another pang of discomfort.
— You’ll get used to it, — he replied curtly, then added, — I’m going to the home today. I want to find out more.
Noah lowered his gaze and nodded but said nothing. Andrew noticed how the boy’s small face tensed—he was clearly hiding something. But pressing him now would be pointless.
