Alexander sat in the back of his black SUV, staring at the paper in his hands. A child's drawing. Junior had given it to the driver, who had passed it on to him with a quiet smile.
It was simple—stick figures. A man, a woman, and a boy holding both their hands.
His heart clenched.
Maria hadn't spoken to him again since the elevator. But this… this was a message. Maybe not from her lips, but from her son.
And that was enough—for now.
Later that afternoon, Maria was in the kitchen boiling yams when she heard a soft knock. She hesitated, wiped her hands, and opened the door.
Alexander stood there—again.
This time, he held no business card. No flowers. Just a large art set in his hands.
"Is he around?" he asked gently.
Maria eyed the gift. "He's inside. Drawing."
"Then I brought the right thing."
She paused, then stepped aside. "Fifteen minutes. No more."
Alexander walked in like a man entering a temple—careful, reverent. He saw Junior on the floor, colouring with broken pencils.
"Hey there," he said, kneeling. "I'm Alex."
Junior looked up with wide eyes. "You're the man in the car."
"I am. And I heard you like drawing, so I brought you something."
He placed the art set on the floor. Junior's eyes sparkled. "For me?"
"All yours."
Junior opened it and gasped. Markers. Watercolours. Brushes. A sketchpad thicker than anything he'd ever owned.
Maria watched from the doorway, arms crossed—but her expression had softened.
As Junior began showing Alexander his drawings, Maria looked away. Something warm and painful tugged at her chest.
This was dangerous.
Because the more her son smiled…
…the harder it became to protect her own heart.