Still—mine.
I nod a stiff thanks to the old man. I don’t trust my voice not to crack.
Then, I take my only chance?—
And run.
“I don’t knowwhy she did it.”
Noah folds his hand into mine as I guide him over to the kitchen sink. I grab a hand towel, hold it under the running water, then wring it out. Gently, I press the cool cloth to his flushed face.
“Everything I needed was slotted between the pages of the Bible,” he mumbles from under the towel.
I move it slowly across his cheeks, then up to his hairline, blotting gently by his ears. I feel the tension in his body soften just slightly, like the warmth of his skin is letting go in small increments.
“Like what?” I ask, dragging the towel down the side of his neck. He exhales, soft and shaky, the coolness grounding him.
“My adoption papers, for one.” His voice steadies. “The names of my real adoptive parents were there. Their address in America too.”
He lowers the towel slightly, his eyes unfocused, lost again—but this time not to fear. There’s something quieter in the blankness, a fragile processing of truths long hidden.
“There were letters… from Erica. I assume they were intercepted by my father, but for some reason, my mother kept them. They were postmarked from New York.”
A sniffle escapes, and he drags his wrist across his nose.
“I found a plastic teardrop too. Three-dimensional. A bookmark—one end tucked between the pages, the tear hanging over the binder. Of course, Erica was an artist. I recognized her work instantly.” A sad smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. “It was like a mini snow globe, except in the shape of a tear. Inside… it held the rain.”
He looks up at me, eyes glistening. “And my tears.”
I rinse the towel again and hand it over, letting him take it this time. He wipes at his eyes, calmer now. “She was always so creative,” he whispers. I wait, giving him the space to breathe.
“A keycard was also tucked between the pages,” he adds. “It belonged to a locker at a gym in downtown Paris. When I got there… I found cash. Lots of it. And copies of sketches my sister had turned over to the authorities.”
He pauses. I say nothing. Something tells me that was Gabriel’s cash.
“There was a note attached to the pile of drawings,” he continues, eyes fixed on something far away. “‘Follow me through the rain,’ it said.”
He meets my gaze—clearer now, stronger. “I knew exactly what she was referring to,” he says. “We were of the same mind, after all.”
I tuck a loose strand of hair behind his ear. Feeling a small weight lift from both of us.
“Sounds like your mother was in cahoots with your sister?”
Those sad eyes turn even sadder. I set the washcloth aside and cup his face gently between my hands. His skin is warm, soft beneath my palms, and I feel the tremor of tension that’s been coiled there for years.
“Maybe.” He breathes the word against my touch.
It’s clear he’s still struggling to fully accept it. Can’t say I blame him. Eleven years trapped by those people—trust doesn’t exactly come easy.
“I guess,” he murmurs.
I tread carefully with my next question. He’s placed his sister on a pedestal—and I want to respect that. Honestly, she did orchestrate his escape. She’s the reason he’s standing here now, breathing, alive.
“Noah…” I pause, searching his face. “Your sister sounds like a wonderful person.”
“She is!” He beams. And for a moment, that smile feels like sunlight cutting through the storm that’s followed him his whole life.
But I have to ask. Even if it shatters that light for a moment. Even if it risks everything.
