ADVERTISEMENT
Weeks later, the investigator called with a new lead.
In a small town nestled in the mountains, a street painter had been signing his work “Lucas Menezes.” The name struck like lightning.
Arthur and Clara set out immediately.
The town square was lively. Stalls lined the cobblestone streets. Children chased each other near a fountain. Among the bustle sat a man at an easel, painting a portrait of a child.
His beard was neatly trimmed. His hair sprinkled with a bit of gray. He seemed calm, focused… and strangely familiar.
Clara’s breath caught in her throat. “Arthur,” she whispered, “I think that’s him.”
She approached first. The man looked up, squinting slightly.
“I know you,” he said slowly. “From… from a long time ago. The orphanage.”
“Yes,” she answered, tears welling. “I’m Clara.”
Arthur stepped forward, his voice shaking. “Lucas.”
The man turned to him, confusion written across his face. Then Arthur gently unfolded the worn drawing he had carried in his coat pocket since the day at the orphanage.
“Do you remember this?” Arthur asked.
Continue reading…
ADVERTISEMENT
