Chapter 2: Shadows in the Garden
By three in the morning, the house was entirely dead to the world, save for the rhythmic clicking of my laptop keys in the downstairs study. I had spent hours running background checks through private security channels, trying to unearth any record of an eight-year-old South Asian boy named Rohan living near our estate in Westchester or our primary residence in the city. The digital files returned nothing concrete—just a patchwork of temporary residency forms tied to a community center three miles away. No wealthy patrons, no medical credentials, no history of miraculous claims. Just a child in a worn-out tan shirt and dark trousers who had slipped past our high-end security gate as if it were nothing more than a picket fence.
I rubbed my tired eyes, feeling the graying stubble along my jawline, and stood up to pour myself a finger of Scotch. Through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows of the study, the moonlit lawn stretched out toward the wrought-iron fence. The string lights had been turned off hours ago, leaving the garden bathed in silver and indigo.
A sudden movement near the old oak tree caught my eye.
I froze, the glass halfway to my lips. A small figure was kneeling by the edge of the flowerbed, perfectly still, his silhouette dark against the manicured lawn. Even from a distance, the messy dark hair and the posture of absolute stillness were unmistakable. Rohan.
My chest tightened with a sharp, defensive spike of adrenaline. I set the glass down hard enough to rattle the crystal, rounded the mahogany desk, and strode toward the French doors that led directly out to the patio. I didn't care about propriety or midnight trespass laws; this was my home, my sanctuary, and my daughter was sleeping twenty feet above.
The night air was crisp, carrying the sharp scent of damp earth and late-summer grass as I stepped onto the stone pavers. "Hey!" I called out, keeping my voice low but carrying with sharp authority. "Get away from the property right now, or I'm calling the county police."
The boy did not startle. He stood up slowly, turning to face me across twenty yards of moonlit grass. His hands were tucked deep into the pockets of his dark trousers, and his expression was entirely devoid of fear or guilt. He looked at me with an earnest, unsettling patience that made me feel like an intruder in my own yard.
"Sir," Rohan said, his voice carrying clearly across the quiet lawn without needing to be raised. "She needs to see the sun tomorrow. Not just the lamps."
"You have no business being here," I said, closing the distance between us until I stood five feet away, towering over him by a full two heads. Up close, I could see the frayed collar of his tan shirt and the smudges of soil on his knees. He looked ordinary—poor, tired, and entirely out of place among the multimillion-dollar estates of our neighbors. Yet his dark eyes held a gravity that belonged to someone old enough to be my grandfather. "If you ever come near my daughter again, I won't just call the police. Do you understand me?"
May you like
Rohan tilted his head slightly, studying my face with a quiet curiosity. "You're afraid she'll walk away from you, Mr. Hayes. But she only wants to run toward you."
The words struck me like a physical blow to the sternum. I opened my mouth to demand an explanation, to threaten him with ruin, but before I could form the sentence, a sudden gust of wind swept through the garden, carrying a brilliant swirl of golden sparks that danced briefly between us before vanishing into the dark foliage. When I blinked and looked back down, the boy was gone.
