The child looked no older than nine. His name was Noah Whitaker, though most people in Cedar Ridge knew him only as the quiet boy. Since the accident the previous year, Noah had not spoken—not at school, not at home, not even during medical evaluations. Doctors called it trauma-induced mutism. The town called it heartbreak.
Noah held a small red rain jacket tightly against his chest. The fabric was worn thin, sleeves too short now, clearly belonging to a younger child. His fingers gripped it with desperate care, like letting go might erase something important.
The distance between the man and the boy was barely two feet.
Yet the silence between them felt enormous.
A woman beside me whispered, “He’s been there over an hour.”
Continue on the next page:
