Not one car, but several.
Four luxury cars pulled up in front of my shop, shiny enough to reflect the whole street. People gathered and whispered.
I stepped outside, confused and nervous.
The doors flew open.
A man in a crisp shirt jumped out of the first car and ran toward David, who was washing plates behind the shop.
“David!” the man shouted, voice cracking.
David looked up, startled.
The man dropped to his knees in the dust, grabbed David’s hands, and held them as if touching him proved he was real.
Tears streamed down his face.
“My son,” he whispered. “My son. It’s really you.”
The street went silent.
My heart hammered painfully.
David froze, eyes wide, frightened. He pulled back slightly, staring at the stranger kneeling before him.
The man lifted his face. “I’m your father,” he said softly. “I’ve been searching for you for years.”
I took a step forward, stunned.
David’s father?
David had been alone.
He had lived in an empty building.
He had said, They are waiting for me, like a lie he needed to survive.
The man turned to me. “Are you the one taking care of him?”
I nodded slowly.
He bowed his head. “Thank you. Thank you for keeping my son alive.”
