Chapter 3 - The Ghost in the Frame
The old man turned back to the children, his expression softening into a look of deep, sorrowful gentle warmth. He knelt on the hard floor, completely unconcerned with ruining the tailored knees of his pants, and reached out a large, wrinkled hand.
"Come with me, kids," he murmured gently. "Let's get you warm."
Ten minutes later, Leo and Maya were seated in a private velvet booth at the back of the establishment, far from the prying eyes of the dining room. A steaming bowl of creamy potato leek soup and a basket of golden, buttered bread sat between them. Maya was eating ravenously, her small fingers covered in butter, while the old man sat across from them, watching in profound silence.
Leo’s hands remained under the table. His survival instincts, honed by weeks of hiding, refused to quiet down. Wealthy men in tailored suits didn't buy three-hundred-dollar dinners for homeless orphans out of the goodness of their hearts.
"What's your name, son?" the old man asked gently.
"Leo," the boy answered warily. "Her name is Maya."
"I am Arthur Vance," the man offered, adjusting his gold cuff links. "Where are your parents, Leo?"
Leo didn't answer. Instead, his hand reached deep into the hidden pocket stitched inside his grey t-shirt. His fingers brushed against a fragile, rectangular piece of cardstock—a piece of paper his mother had jammed into his hand seconds before the door was kicked off its hinges three nights ago.
'If you are ever trapped,' she had whispered into his ear, her voice shaking with terror, 'find Arthur Vance. Show him the frame. But trust no one else.'
Leo slowly pulled his hand out of his shirt. He slid a worn, silver-bordered black-and-white photograph across the white tablecloth toward the old man. The corners of the photo were dog-eared and frayed, stained with old fingerprints.
"Thank you, sir," Leo said softly, his blue eyes locking onto Arthur’s face. "You look familiar. Is this you?"
Arthur picked up the photograph with a light, trembling touch. The image depicted a young man in his early thirties, dressed in an old military uniform, holding a newborn baby wrapped in a hospital blanket. On the back of the photograph, written in faded fountain-pen ink, was a date: October 14, 1998.
May you like
Arthur froze. The color drained from his face until his skin matched the white porcelain plates on the table. His jaw slackened, his eyes widening in a burst of sheer, staggering shock that stripped away forty years of polished composure.
"Where... where did you get this?" Arthur whispered, his voice barely audible over the clinking of silverware.
