It was an ordinary Tuesday, rainy and gray—just like hundreds of other days that had blurred into a single fog for Mark and Sarah Jennings. They were about to eat dinner in silence when a knock came at the door.
The knock was hesitant. Sarah thought the delivery driver had the wrong address. But when she opened the door, her heart skipped a beat, and the plate she was holding crashed to the floor, shattering into pieces.
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Standing on the porch wasn’t a courier. It was a young man, looking about twenty years old. He was soaked, shivering, and clutching an old, faded baseball cap in his hands—the exact one Sarah had bought for her son the day before the tragedy.
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The boy looked up. Bright green eyes with a tiny speck in the left iris. Eyes that Sarah hadn’t seen in 13 years. “Mom?” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I found my way home.”