The man nearly dropped the ball.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then he asked quietly,

“How old are you?”

“Ten.”

His face went pale.

Ten years ago, the boy’s mother had vanished without a goodbye.

He turned the ball in his shaking hands. Beneath the faded letters was a tiny heart scratched into the leather.

He remembered making it for her on the last afternoon they spent together.

“Is your mother’s name Charlotte?”

The boy’s eyes widened.

“You know her?”

The man closed his eyes as pain moved across his face.

“I loved her.”

The boy slowly stepped back.

“She said you abandoned us.”

His eyes opened.

“No. She disappeared before I knew you existed.”

The boy searched his face, frightened and hopeful at once.

Then he pulled a folded envelope from his pocket.

“She told me to give you this only if you knew the code.”

The man recognized the handwriting immediately.

His hands shook as he opened it.

Inside was an old photograph of Charlotte holding a newborn.

On the back were six words:

He never left us. I did.

The man looked up, tears filling his eyes.

“Where is she?”

The boy’s breath caught.

“In the hospital.”

He swallowed hard.

“She said she needed to see whether you still remembered us… before she dies.”