I forced myself back into something that resembled normal life—work meetings, grocery shopping, quiet Sunday calls with my sister.
Then one afternoon, while I was in another city for a meeting, I stopped at a small café.
I ordered coffee and waited at the counter.
The door opened behind me.
When I turned, an older man had just stepped inside. His coat was worn and thin, his hands full of coins he was counting carefully.
He looked homeless.
And he was wearing my son’s jacket.
Not a jacket like Daniel’s.
The jacket.
I recognized it instantly because of the guitar-shaped patch on the sleeve. Daniel had torn it on a fence months before, and I’d stitched that patch on myself.
There was also a faint paint stain across the back from when he helped a neighbor repaint a shed.
It was Daniel’s.
I turned to the barista.
“Add that man’s tea and a bun to my order.”
The barista nodded.
The man looked at me with surprise. “Thank you, ma’am.”
“Where did you get that jacket?” I asked.
He looked down at it.
“A boy gave it to me.”
My heart slammed against my ribs.
“Brown hair?” I asked. “About sixteen?”
He nodded.
People moved between us while the barista handed him the tea and bun.
When I pushed past them, he was already heading toward the door.
“Wait!” I called.
But he stepped outside and into the crowd.
I followed him down the street, trying to catch up.
After two blocks, something strange occurred to me.
He wasn’t stopping.
Not for food. Not for change. Not for anything.
He was walking with purpose.
So instead of calling out again, I slowed down and followed him.
He walked for nearly an hour.
Eventually we reached the edge of the city, where abandoned houses stood like tired ghosts beside the woods.
He stopped in front of one of them.
The yard was overgrown with weeds. The paint had peeled away from the walls. It looked forgotten.
The old man knocked softly.
I stepped closer, hiding behind a tree.
The door opened.
