A homeless woman burst into a mafia funeral and did the impossible.
She stopped them from burying the boss’s son alive.
The boy she saved refuses to eat, sleep, or breathe without her.
Now the most dangerous man in the city has declared her part of his family—
and anyone who touches her becomes his enemy.

---

The Funeral

The October rain fell like tears over the Romano estate in upstate New York.
Inside the marble chapel, two hundred people sat in silence, staring at the small white coffin that held the remains of nine-year-old Luca Romano.

The boy’s pale face, framed by dark curls, looked peaceful through the glass panel—too peaceful, like a porcelain doll arranged by careful hands.

Don Vincent Romano stood at the front, his weathered face carved from stone.
He had not cried. Mafia bosses did not cry—not even for their only sons.
His hand rested on the edge of the coffin—the same hand that had signed death sentences and built an empire.
Now it trembled.

“Lord, we commend this child to Your care,” Father Murphy’s voice echoed in the chapel.

The pallbearers—six of Vincent’s most trusted men—lifted the coffin.
The procession began its slow march toward the waiting hearse.

A thunderclap rumbled outside.

Vincent followed behind.
His wife, Maria, collapsed against her sister, sobbing into black lace.

That was when the screaming began.

“STOP! YOU CAN’T BURY HIM!”

Every head snapped toward the chapel doors as a woman burst inside—wild-eyed, soaked to the bone, her ragged coat dripping rainwater onto the polished floor.

Her gray hair hung in tangled strands around a face carved with wrinkles and desperation.
Two guards rushed to intercept her.

“He’s not dead!” the woman shrieked, fighting their hold. “Please—you have to listen! Luca is alive!”

“Get her out of here,” someone barked.

But Vincent raised his hand.

There was something in her voice—
not the madness everyone else heard,
but a terrible certainty that made him freeze, his dark eyes locked on her face as the guards held her.

“What did you say?”
His voice was calm. Deadly calm.

The woman stopped struggling.
Rain dripped from her chin as she met his gaze without fear.

“Your son is breathing, Mr. Romano. I saw his chest move. I’ve been watching for an hour from outside.
Please—check.
What do you have to lose?”

“She’s insane!” Maria cried. “We’ve lost our baby! How dare she—”

“I’m a nurse,” the woman cut in, her voice suddenly firm and professional.
“Or… I was, for 15 years. I know death when I see it.
And that child in there—he is not dead.”

The chapel erupted in angry murmurs. Someone called the police.
Father Murphy stepped forward, face flushed with outrage.

But Vincent never looked away from the homeless woman.

He had built his empire by reading people—seeing when they lied, when they feared, when they plotted.
This woman was not lying.
She was terrified, yes—but not of him.
Terrified of being wrong…
terrified of what would happen if she stayed silent.

“Open it,” Vincent said.

The crowd gasped.
Maria grabbed his arm. “Vincent, please—”

“I said… open it.”

The pallbearers exchanged glances but obeyed.
Frank Russo, Vincent’s consigliere for twenty years, stepped forward.

“Boss—think about this. Three doctors declared him dead. Twelve hours ago.”

“Open the damn coffin, Frank,” Vincent growled.

Two men carefully lowered the coffin onto its stand.
Benson’s hands shook as he reached for the latches.

Maria covered her face, unable to look.

The lid clicked open.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Luca lay motionless, his small hands crossed over his chest, a rosary between his fingers.
He looked exactly as he had that morning—peaceful, absent, beyond pain.

Then—

his chest moved.

Just barely.
A faint upward-and-downward whisper of breath.

But it was there.

“Oh my God…” someone whispered.

Benson pressed his fingers to Luca’s neck.
Cold skin…
but beneath it—

a pulse.
Weak, irregular, but unmistakably there.
Fluttering like a butterfly’s wing.

“CALL AN AMBULANCE!” Vincent roared.

Chaos erupted.

People screamed, cried, shoved forward to see.
Maria collapsed, then lunged toward the coffin, hands seeking her son’s face.

“Luca… Mama’s here!”

Vincent lifted the boy into his arms, his voice breaking for the first time.

“Hang on, son… please… hang on.”

The homeless woman stood frozen, tears running down her face—relief and terror interwoven—as Vincent’s gaze met hers across the crowd.

“You,” he said. “What’s your name?”

“…Clara.”

“Clara Bennett. Come with us. Now.”

Two guards gently took her by the arms as ambulance sirens wailed closer.

Vincent carried Luca through the doors.
The boy stirred, lips parting.

“…Mama…”

Maria sobbed harder, running beside them.

The crowd parted like a wave.

But as they rushed into the storm, Clara saw something no one else noticed—

Frank Russo, standing near the altar, face pale, clutching his phone.
Their eyes met for one second.

In his gaze she did not see relief.

She saw fear.

The ambulance doors slammed shut, carrying Luca, his parents, and Clara away from the estate.

Behind them, funeral guests stood soaking in the rain as emergency lights disappeared into the long driveway.

Frank Russo remained in the chapel doorway, jaw clenched, typing a single message:

We have a problem.

---

At the Hospital

The room smelled of antiseptic and fear.

Luca lay in the bed, oxygen tubes in his nose, machines beeping steadily.
Doctors had stabilized him, but answers remained elusive.

“Medically induced lethargy,” they said.
“Severe hypothermia. Toxic drug levels inconsistent with any prescribed medication.”

Nothing made sense.

Vincent stood by the window, watching Luca’s chest rise and fall.
Maria sat beside the bed, gripping Luca’s hand as if it were her lifeline.

Three guards stood outside the door.
No one entered without Vincent’s approval—except Clara.

She sat in a corner, still in her wet, ragged coat.
Nurses had offered her dry clothes; she refused, as if accepting anything might shatter the fragile protection surrounding her.

Her hands twisted in her lap.
When the doctor finally left, Vincent approached her.
His expression unreadable.

“Everyone out,” he said quietly.

Maria looked alarmed.
“Vincent—please, just a few minutes,” she pleaded.

She kissed Luca’s forehead and left, closing the door behind her.

Only the machines remained—soft, rhythmic, unforgiving.

Vincent placed a chair in front of Clara and sat.
For a moment, he said nothing.

Then—

“How did you know?”

His voice was soft.
Dangerous.

Clara swallowed.

“I told you—I saw him breathe.”

Vincent leaned forward.

“The coffin was closed when you entered.
The viewing ended an hour before the service.
You couldn’t have seen anything from outside.”

His eyes hardened.

“So I’ll ask one more time.
How did you know my son was alive?”

Clara’s hands went still.
She lifted her eyes and met his with startling honesty.

“Because I’ve seen it before.
Fifteen years ago, at St. Catherine’s Hospital in Manhattan.
I was a trauma nurse there.”

“Go on.”

“There was a patient—a man in his twenties, car accident victim.
Arrived unconscious.
Barely any vital signs.
Everyone assumed he was dead.
Time of death was about to be called—11:47 p.m.”

She paused. Lowered her voice.

“But something felt wrong. His color… the way his muscles responded.
I insisted on more tests.”

She inhaled sharply.

“They found a rare drug in his system. Something that mimics death.
Slows the heart, suppresses breathing, lowers body temperature.
If we had sent him to the morgue, he would have woken up in a drawer.”

Vincent’s jaw tightened.

“What drug?”

“Tetrodotoxin. From pufferfish. Used by Haitian Vodou priests to create zombies.
It puts people in a deathlike state for hours—sometimes days.”

The words hung in the room like a blade.

“Who would do that to a child?”
Vincent’s voice barely rose above a whisper.

“I don’t know,” Clara said.
“But when I saw the funeral notice yesterday, the photo of your son…
same age, same sudden, inexplicable ‘death’…
something told me to come.
I’ve been homeless for three years, Mr. Romano.
Living in a park six blocks from your estate.
I had nothing to lose.”

Vincent studied her.
Everything in his world ran on favors, leverage, desire.

But this woman wanted nothing.

She had risked everything for a child she had never met.

“You could have stayed silent,” he said.

“I couldn’t,” Clara whispered.
“Not again. Not another child.”

Before Vincent could respond—the door opened.

The doctor entered.

But it was Luca who changed everything.

---

Luca Wakes

The boy had opened his eyes.

Vincent was at his bedside instantly.
Maria rushed in behind him.

“Sweetheart—can you hear me?”

Luca’s eyes were glassy, unfocused.
His lips moved silently at first, then—

“…Scared…”

“What are you scared of, honey?” Maria whispered, stroking his hair. “You’re safe now.”

But Luca slowly turned his head, searching the room.

His gaze passed over his parents… over the doctor…

Until it found Clara, sitting in the corner.

He lifted his small hand.

“…Stay…”

Clara froze.
Vincent and Maria exchanged stunned looks.

“Luca, darling, she’s just—” Maria began.

“She stays,” Luca insisted, louder now.
“She pulled me back.
I was falling in the dark.
She pulled me back.”

Vincent’s blood ran cold.

His son had been unconscious when Clara stopped the funeral.
He could not know who she was.

Not unless something else was happening.

“Clara stays,” Vincent said firmly.

He turned to her, voice carrying an unspoken vow:

“You are under my protection.
Whatever you need—food, clothes, a place to stay.
You saved my son’s life.
That includes your family.”

Clara’s eyes filled with tears.
She nodded silently.

But neither she nor Vincent noticed the small surveillance camera in the corner…
or the man watching from another room.

Frank Russo stood in the administrator’s office, phone pressed to his ear.

“She knows about the tetrodotoxin,” he said quietly.

“Yes… I understand. We’ll handle it.”

He hung up, staring at the screen showing Clara and the Romano family.

His hand drifted toward the gun under his jacket.

Some problems didn’t go away on their own.

The Return to the Estate

The Romano estate looked different when they returned three days later.

Luca was still weak, but doctors discharged him to recover at home under 24-hour nursing care. Vincent had transformed the east wing into a private medical suite—monitoring equipment, oxygen tanks, emergency supplies. Two nurses had signed strict nondisclosure agreements.

And Clara.

She refused to leave Luca’s side.
She had been given a room beside his, new clothes, and a salary as his personal caretaker.

But the looks Vincent’s men gave her made it clear what they thought of that arrangement.

Suspicion Spreads

On the fourth night, Vincent summoned a meeting in his study.
Twelve men sat around the polished caoba table—his capos, his most trusted soldiers, the backbone of the organization.

Frank Russo sat at his right hand, as he always had.

Vincent poured himself a glass of whiskey without offering anyone else a drink.

“Gentlemen,” he began. His voice echoed with authority. “Thank you for your patience in these difficult days. My son is alive because of a miracle. But that is not why I called you here.”

He slammed the glass down hard. Several men flinched.

“I called you because someone tried to murder him.”

The room erupted—shouts, denials, outrage.

Vincent let them bark for exactly ten seconds before he smashed his fist into the table.

“Silence.”

Silence fell instantly.

“Today’s toxicology reports came back,” Vincent continued.
“Tetrodotoxin, a paralytic poison designed to mimic death. It was in Luca’s system for at least six hours before the funeral.
One more hour in that coffin and his brain would have suffered permanent damage.”

His voice dropped to a lethal whisper.

“Someone inside my house poisoned my nine-year-old son, intending for him to be buried alive.”

Tony Marcello, one of the senior captains, leaned forward.
“Boss… you think it was an inside job?”

“Who else had access?” Vincent said coldly.
“Luca never leaves the estate without guards. His meals come from our kitchen staff. His medicine is handled by Frank—”

A murmur rippled around the table.

Frank’s face remained still, but a muscle twitched at his jaw.

“Frank has handled Luca’s medication for years,” Vincent said cautiously.
“He’s been like an uncle to him.”

“And Frank tried to stop you from opening the coffin,” Tony said lightly, but with sharp eyes.

Frank’s chair scraped loudly as he stood.
“Are you accusing me, Tony?”

“I’m saying what everyone is thinking.”

“Enough,” Vincent snapped.

He raised a hand.

“I’m not here to point fingers without proof. But someone in this organization wanted my son dead—maybe to hurt me, maybe to seize power, maybe for reasons we haven’t uncovered.”

He swept his gaze across the room, one man at a time.

“I want names. Anyone behaving strangely. Anyone suddenly wealthy. Anyone who’s been contacting our enemies.”

“What about the homeless woman?” Jimmy “The Knife” Castellano asked.
He was young, impulsive, dangerous.

“She showed up out of nowhere. She interrupts the funeral. Suddenly she moves into your house. Nobody else sees the… convenience?”

Several men nodded.

“Clara Bennett saved my son’s life,” Vincent said coldly.

“Or maybe she poisoned him first,” Jimmy countered.
“Think about it, Boss. She knew exactly what the drug was. She knew when to show up. Now she has access to everything—your house, your family, your business.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Frank muttered.

But he sounded unsure.

“She’s been homeless for years. Perfect cover,” Jimmy pressed.
“No one suspects a homeless woman. She walks in, plays the hero, gets into your inner circle. Now Luca won’t take medicine unless she gives it to him. That’s control. That’s influence.”

Frank scowled. “Are you suggesting the feds planted her?”

“I’m suggesting we don’t know a damn thing about her except what she told us. And what she told us?
She’s an expert in the exact poison used on your son.”

A murmur of agreement swept the table.

Vincent rose. The room fell quiet.

“Here’s what we’ll do.”

He pointed to Marco, his head of security.

“Investigate Clara’s past. Everything. Confirm her story. Where she’s lived. Who she’s spoken to. If anyone’s been paying her.”

“Yes, Boss.”

He pointed at Tony and Jimmy.

“You two investigate kitchen staff, guards—anyone with access to Luca’s food or medicine in the last month. I want backgrounds, phone logs, bank accounts.”

Finally, Vincent turned to Frank.

“And me?” Frank asked softly.

Vincent held his gaze.

“You will look into our enemies. The Calibri family, the Russians, the Irish. Someone made a move. Someone thought killing my son would weaken me.
I want to know who.”

Frank nodded stiffly.
“Consider it done.”

When the meeting ended, men exited in clusters, whispering.

Jimmy lingered near the door, speaking with two younger soldiers.
Vincent caught fragments:

“Don’t trust her.”
“Too convenient.”
“Could be working with someone inside.”

Frank stayed seated until they all left.

“Do you truly believe Clara is innocent?” he asked.

Vincent walked to the window overlooking the garden.

Clara was there with Luca, the boy’s hand in hers.
Luca laughed—a sound Vincent hadn’t heard since before his “death.”

Something inside his chest twisted.

“I believe,” Vincent said slowly, “that someone tried to kill my son—and Clara stopped them. Whether she knew about the plot or not… that is what I intend to uncover.”

“And if she’s guilty?” Frank asked quietly.

Vincent’s reflection in the glass was emotionless.

“Then I’ll kill her myself.”

---

The Investigation Begins

Later that night, Vincent found Clara sitting alone in the kitchen, eating leftover pasta straight from the container, looking utterly exhausted.

“He asleep?” Vincent asked.

Clara flinched, nearly dropping her fork.

“Mr. Romano. Yes—finally. It took four stories and a promise I wouldn’t leave before he fell asleep.”

Vincent poured himself a glass of water and sat across from her.

They didn’t speak for a long moment.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

Clara blinked.
“For what?”

“For giving my son his childhood back. Even for a little while.”

His voice was rough.

“I built this life to give him everything—security, wealth, power.
But I never gave him what you give him.”

“Peace,” Clara whispered.

“He adores you. Talks about how strong you are, how everyone respects you.
He wants you to be proud.”

“He should want to be happy,” Vincent muttered.

Clara wrapped her hands around her glass.

“When you stopped that funeral, you didn’t just save his life.
You saved something I didn’t know was still alive in this house.”

Clara reached across the table and squeezed his hand—just for a moment.

It was the first genuine human touch Vincent had felt in years.

“He’s a good boy,” Clara whispered.
“Whatever happens—don’t let this world take that from him.”

Vincent started to respond…
but his phone buzzed.

A message from Marco:

Found something. Need to talk. It’s about the medicine.

Vincent stood abruptly.

“Get some rest, Clara. Tomorrow may be… difficult.”

As he left, Clara felt the room grow cold.

She didn’t know what the message meant.

But she knew one thing with absolute certainty:

The calm was over.
The storm was coming.

The October rain fell like sheets of cold silver over the Romano estate, turning the marble chapel into a muted echo chamber of grief. Two hundred mourners sat in absolute silence, their eyes fixed on the small white coffin at the front of the room. Inside it lay Luca Romano—nine years old, the only son of Vincent Romano, the most feared man in New York State.

His pale face, framed by dark curls, looked too peaceful through the glass panel. Too still, like a porcelain doll placed lovingly by careful hands.

Vincent stood before the coffin, carved out of stone and grief, his hand resting on the lid—the same hand that had signed death warrants, moved armies, and built an empire of fear. That hand trembled now.

The priest whispered the final rites. The pallbearers lifted the coffin. Outside, thunder rolled.

And then—

“STOP! YOU CAN’T BURY HIM!”

The doors burst open.

A soaked, ragged woman stumbled into the chapel. Her gray hair clung to her face, her coat dripping water onto the polished floor. She looked wild—terrified—desperate.

Two guards rushed her.

“He’s not dead!” she screamed. “The boy—Luca—he’s alive! I saw him breathe!”

“Get her out!” someone barked.

But Vincent raised a hand.

Something in her voice—not madness, but certainty—pinned him where he stood.

“What did you say?” His voice was soft, lethal.

The woman stopped struggling. Rain dripped from her chin as she met his gaze without fear.

“Your son is breathing, Mr. Romano. His chest moved. I’ve been watching from outside for an hour. Please. Open the coffin. What do you have to lose?”

“She’s insane!” his wife cried. “We’ve already lost him! How dare she—”

“I was a trauma nurse for fifteen years,” the woman cut in sharply.
“I know death. And that child—your child—is not dead.”

The chapel erupted in outraged whispers.

Vincent didn’t blink.

“Open it,” he said.

The pallbearers hesitated. His consigliere, Frank Russo, stepped forward.

“Boss… think. Three doctors declared him dead. This woman is—”

“OPEN THE DAMN COFFIN, FRANK.”

With shaking hands, the latch was undone.

Silence expanded like a living thing.

Luca lay motionless. Hands crossed. Rosary between fingers.

And then—

A breath.
Barely a whisper, but unmistakable.

His chest rose.

And fell.

“Dear God…” someone gasped.

A pulse fluttered under the pallbearer’s fingers—weak, fragile, but real.

“CALL AN AMBULANCE!” Vincent roared.

Chaos exploded. People cried, screamed, crossed themselves. Maria collapsed and then lunged forward, touching her son’s face.

Vincent scooped the boy into his arms, his voice breaking for the first time:

“Hold on, Luca. Daddy’s here. Hold on.”

Through the chaos, the homeless woman stood frozen, tears running freely down her weathered face. When Vincent’s eyes met hers, something passed between them—shock, gratitude, and a terrifying new truth.

“You,” he said. “What’s your name?”

“Clara,” she whispered. “Clara Bennett.”

“You’re coming with us.”

As the ambulance shrieked away into the storm, Clara saw one last thing nobody else noticed:
Frank Russo stood by the altar, face pale, texting something with a trembling hand.

We have a problem.

---

THE HOSPITAL

The room smelled of antiseptic and fear. Luca lay hooked to monitors, oxygen tubing in his nose. Doctors muttered theories—hypothermia, toxic suppression, cardiac slowdown. Nothing made sense.

Vincent stood at the window, jaw rigid.
Maria clutched Luca’s hand.
Three guards waited outside.

Clara sat silently in a corner, still in her soaked coat, fingers twisted in her lap.

When the doctor left, Vincent turned to her.

Everyone else left the room.

“How did you know he was alive?” His voice was cold steel.

“I told you—I saw him breathe.”

“The coffin was closed. The wake ended an hour before the funeral. You couldn’t have seen anything.
So I’ll ask again. How did you know?”

Clara lifted her tired eyes.

“Because I’ve seen it before.”

Vincent froze.

“Fifteen years ago,” she continued, “at St. Catherine’s Hospital. A young man came in after a car crash. Declared dead. No vitals. No respiration. But something felt wrong. I insisted they test again. They found a rare toxin—tetrodotoxin. Haitian voodoo priests use it to mimic death. He would’ve woken up in a morgue drawer if I hadn’t stopped it.”

Vincent’s breath stopped.

“And you think someone used it on my son?”

“I don’t think,” Clara said quietly. “I know.”

“Who would do that to a child?”

Clara shook her head.
“I only recognized the signs. When I saw his funeral notice… I had to come.”

She hesitated.

“I’ve been homeless for three years, Mr. Romano. If I’m wrong, I lose nothing. But if I’m right… you lose everything.”

Vincent stared at her for a long time—this woman who had risked her life barging into a mafia funeral for a boy she’d never met.

“You could’ve stayed quiet,” he said.

“I couldn’t,” she whispered. “Not again.”

The door burst open.

“Vincent!” a nurse shouted. “He’s waking up!”

Luca’s eyes fluttered open, unfocused and glassy.

“What scares you, sweetheart?” Maria whispered.

“The dark,” he rasped.

“What dark, honey?”

His gaze drifted around the room…

…and locked onto Clara.

His hand lifted weakly toward her.

“Stay…”

Clara froze.

“Please. Stay.”

Vincent felt ice crawl down his spine.
Luca had been unconscious for nearly 24 hours.
He couldn’t possibly know who Clara was.

Unless something deeper connected them.

“Clara stays,” Vincent said.

And to Clara, quietly but firmly:

“You’re under my protection now. Whatever you need—food, clothes, shelter—you have it.
You saved my son.”

Tears filled Clara’s eyes.

But in the security office, Frank Russo watched the live camera feed, clutching a pistol.

“She knows about the tetrodotoxin,” he whispered into the phone.
“Yes. I understand. We’ll take care of it.”

---

THE INVESTIGATION & BETRAYAL

Three days later, they returned to the Romano estate. Luca clung to Clara like she was air. He only ate when she fed him. Only slept when she sat beside him. Only took his medicine from her hands.

But Vincent’s world was cracking.

A secret meeting confirmed the unthinkable:

Someone inside had ordered the rare drug.

Someone inside had tampered with Luca’s asthma medicine.

Someone inside wanted the boy dead.

Clara discovered the tampered medicine, stopped Luca from swallowing poison a second time—and received anonymous death threats demanding she leave the house.

In the dead of night, heavily armed Calibri mercenaries attacked the estate.

Their order:

“Find the boy.”

Clara dragged Luca into the bathroom, shielding him with her own body as explosions shattered windows. She fought two armed men with nothing but a metal towel bar, knocking them unconscious.

Downstairs, Vincent waged a war of his own—killing traitors, driving back attackers, nearly losing his closest loyal man.

When Tony burst into the bathroom and saw Clara standing guard over Luca, he whispered:

“Remind me never to piss you off.”

When the smoke cleared, one name surfaced:

Frank Russo.

Vincent’s right hand.
His trusted brother-in-arms.
His friend of twenty years.

Frank had sold them out.

And he had tried—twice—to murder Luca.

---

THE JUDGMENT

Three weeks later, every capo, soldier, and associate gathered in the great hall.

Frank, beaten and tied to a chair, stared at the floor.

Vincent stood tall before them.

“Frank Russo conspired with the Calibri family.
He placed traitors among us.
He poisoned my son and nearly destroyed everything we built.”

The hall erupted.

Vincent silenced them with a hand.

“Pain doesn’t weaken me. It reminds me why I fight. Not for money. Not for territory. For family.”

He turned to the room.

“Bring them in.”

The captured Calibri leaders were dragged in, trembling.

“Calibri is finished in New York,” Vincent announced. “Their territory is ours. Their boss… will make no more deals.”

Then he faced Frank.

“You wanted to break me. Instead, you reminded me who I am.”

A gesture.
Guards dragged Frank out of the hall.

No one asked where he was being taken.

Some betrayals cannot be forgiven.

---

CLARA’S NEW LIFE

When the hall cleared, Vincent called Clara forward.
Luca held her hand tightly.

“This woman saved my son twice,” Vincent said.
“Once from poison. Once during an armed attack.”

He turned to his men.

“Clara Bennett is under my protection.
She is family.
Anyone who touches her touches me.”

Applause thundered through the hall.

Maria hugged Clara with tears in her eyes.

Later, Vincent approached Clara privately.

He handed her an envelope.

“The address of your daughter. And two plane tickets—to visit her, or bring her home. Whatever you choose.”

Clara’s voice shook.
“How… why would you do this?”

“Because you saved my son. Because you’re a good person in a world that destroys good people.
And because Luca needs you.”

For the first time in years, Clara felt something she had long forgotten:

Hope.

That night, in the quiet garden, Luca curled beside her as she read him a story.

“Clara?” he whispered sleepily.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Are you happy here?”

She looked at the warm lights of the estate.
The guards patrolling.
The smell of Maria’s cooking drifting through the windows.
Vincent watching over them like a silent guardian.

She thought of the cold park benches she once slept on.

And the boy whose hand clung to hers like she was all he had.

She kissed his forehead.

“Yes, honey,” she whispered.
“I’m home.”

And for the first time in three years, the words were true.