The next morning, Kiley sat across from Dr. Frye in his office. He explained the chemotherapy protocol in detail, using words like "intrathecal" and "remission." Kiley signed the consent forms, her signature steady this time.
"His immune system will be compromised," Dr. Frye warned. "He needs to stay in the ward. No leaving the room without a mask."
"I understand," Kiley said. She walked back to Jules's room. He was awake, watching cartoons on the tablet, his color slightly better.
"Mom, I'm bored," Jules complained.
"I know, baby," Kiley said. "I just have to go talk to the doctor again for a minute. Stay here, okay? Don't get out of bed."
"Okay," Jules sighed, turning back to his screen.
Kiley stepped out to speak with the nutritionist. She was gone for ten minutes. Maybe fifteen.
When she came back, the bed was empty.
"Jules?" Kiley called, her voice rising. She checked the bathroom. Empty. She looked under the bed. Nothing.
Panic, raw and blinding, seized her chest. She ran out into the hallway. "Jules! Jules!"
She ran to the nurse's station. "My son! He's gone! He's not in his room!"
The nurses immediately sprang into action, calling security. Kiley ran down the hall, checking every room, every closet. Her mind was racing with images of him falling, him bleeding, him hiding in a corner scared.
Jules, bored and restless, had slipped out of bed. His little feet were bare, padding softly on the cold linoleum. He saw a colorful toy cart being pushed down the hall and, curious, followed it. He only made it twenty feet from his room before the cart turned a corner, leaving him alone in an unfamiliar corridor near the VIP wing's lounge.
There was a small, plush lounge area with leather sofas. Sitting on one of the sofas was a man in a dark suit. He looked tired. He was rubbing the bridge of his nose with his thumb and finger.
Jules noticed something shiny on the floor near the man's shoe. A silver cufflink, shaped like a tiny shield. It had fallen off when the man shifted his weight.
Jules walked over, his hospital gown trailing behind him. He bent down and picked up the cufflink. It was cool and heavy in his small palm.
Albin felt a presence. He opened his eyes, expecting Leo. Instead, he saw a small boy standing by his knee. A boy with pale skin and big blue eyes.
"Hello," Jules said, his voice soft. He held out the cufflink. "You dropped this, mister."
Albin stared at the boy. The air left his lungs. It was like looking at a ghost. A ghost from twenty years ago.
The shape of the eyes. The slope of the nose. The way the boy tilted his head when he spoke. It was Caleb. It was Caleb as a child, standing right in front of him.
"Boss?" Leo said from behind, noticing Albin's pale face. He looked at the boy. His jaw dropped. "My god. He looks just like..."
"Shut up," Albin hissed, his voice trembling. He couldn't breathe. The grief, the shock-it was a physical pain in his chest.
He forced himself to smile, though it felt like his face might crack. "Thank you," he said, taking the cufflink. His fingers brushed the boy's hand. The skin was warm. Real. "What's your name?"
"Jules," the boy said. "I'm lost. I can't find my mom."
"I'll help you," Albin said, his voice rough. He started to stand up.
"Jules!" A scream echoed down the hall.
Kiley sprinted into the lounge, her face a mask of terror. She saw Jules standing next to a stranger. She didn't think. She just moved. She scooped Jules into her arms, holding him so tight he squeaked.
"Are you okay? Are you hurt?" she demanded, checking his arms, his face. "I told you not to leave the bed!"
"I just wanted to see the toys," Jules sniffled, wrapping his arms around her neck.
Kiley finally looked up at the man who had been sitting with her son. Her breath caught. It was him again. The pine scent. The cold eyes. Only this time, the coldness was gone. He looked... shattered.
"Did he bother you?" Kiley asked, adjusting Jules on her hip. "I'm so sorry. He wandered off."
Albin looked at the woman. Then at the boy in her arms. The resemblance was uncanny. It was impossible. Caleb was dead. Caleb had no children.
"No bother," Albin said, his voice clipped. He stood up, straightening his jacket. "He just found my cufflink."
"Thank you," Kiley said. "Come on, Jules. Let's go back."
She turned and hurried away, clutching her son. But the stranger's look-a baffling mix of shock and raw grief-pricked at the edge of her mind. It was more than surprise; it was a deep, personal pain. Why would a stranger look at her son like that?
Dr. Frye was walking past the lounge. He saw Albin standing there, staring after the woman and child. Dr. Frye had been the Whitfield family physician for years. He had delivered Caleb. He had signed his death certificate.
He looked at Jules's retreating back. Then at Albin. A chill ran down his spine. The bone structure. The eyes. It wasn't just a resemblance. It was a mirror.
Albin caught the doctor's look. He turned away, his jaw clenched tight. "Leo. We're leaving."
"Boss, that kid-" Leo started.
"Now," Albin snapped. He walked out of the lounge, his stride long and angry.
He stopped in the hallway, leaning his forehead against the cool glass of the window. He closed his eyes. Caleb's face flashed behind his eyelids. Then Jules's face. They overlapped perfectly.
"It's a coincidence," Albin whispered to himself. "It has to be. Caleb didn't have a kid. He just didn't."
But the seed of doubt had been planted. And it was already starting to take root.
