“Excuse me, ma’am… could we have some of your leftovers?”
At the center table, renowned art dealer Victoria Leclerc looked up from her wine. The diamond on her wrist glimmered beneath the chandelier’s light as the room turned toward her. She didn’t notice the stares. Her gaze locked on the taller boy, and suddenly, she couldn’t breathe.
Those eyes — soft hazel with a streak of green. The same tiny scar above the brow.
Her pulse stuttered. “…Mathieu?”
The boy’s brow furrowed. “How do you know my name?”
The sound of it broke something inside her. Seven years ago, her son Mathieu had vanished in a ferry accident off the coast of Marseille. They told her no child had survived. And yet, here he was, trembling, asking strangers for scraps.
The waiter began to step forward, but Victoria’s voice cut through the silence. “Leave them.”
She rose slowly, her chair scraping the floor, and crossed the room as if in a dream. “It’s me,” she whispered. “It’s Mama.”
The younger boy clutched Mathieu’s sleeve. “Come on, let’s go,” he whispered, his accent rough, his tone wary.
Mathieu stepped back, his face unreadable. “My mother’s dead. They told me she drowned.”
Victoria’s hand shook as she reached into her purse and pulled out a weathered photograph — a woman laughing beside a boy with a toy sailboat. “I’ve carried this every day,” she said softly. “I never stopped searching.”
For a long moment, neither of them moved. Then Mathieu’s voice cracked. “We live behind the old train yard,” he admitted. “It’s cold there. The shelter… wasn’t safe.”
Tears blurred her vision. “Then you’re coming home,” she said, her voice trembling.
The restaurant was silent as she led them out, her hand gripping his as if afraid he might vanish again.
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