Chapter 3
The manager of Le Petit Chêne, a tall man in a sleek black vest and immaculate tie, finally emerged from behind the hostess podium, his face etched with polite alarm. He took two steps toward booth four, clearing his throat to address the disturbance, but stopped the instant he caught Eleanor’s expression. The sheer, unadulterated terror and grief on the forty-five-year-old woman’s face silenced him instantly; he turned on his heel and retreated toward the kitchen, deciding some boundaries were entirely sacred.
Eleanor sank onto the leather bench across from the two boys, the elegant beige fabric of her skirt rustling against the dark upholstery. She reached out, her fingers trembling as she hovered inches from the disheveled boy’s cheek, afraid to touch him, yet desperate to confirm he was real.
“What is your name, sweetheart?” Eleanor asked, her voice cracking, softening into a gentle, maternal cadence that seemed to pierce through the boy’s armor.
The boy kept his gaze fixed on the plate of spaghetti. The rich aroma of garlic and tomatoes filled the air between them, contrasting sharply with the metallic scent of dried blood and street grime. He swallowed hard, his throat working visibly.
“Leo,” the boy murmured, his voice raspy, like dry leaves scraping across concrete.
Julian shifted on the seat beside Leo, adjusting the navy blue vest over his crisp white shirt. He looked down at the untouched plate of food, then nudged the heavy silver fork closer to Leo’s hand. “You have to eat something, Leo. You lost your energy.”
Eleanor listened to her son, stunned by the calm, mature authority in his voice. Just an hour ago, Julian had been complaining about a spelling test and arguing over video game time. Now, sitting beneath the glittering crystals of the dining room chandelier, he possessed the quiet grace of a seasoned protector.
“Leo,” Eleanor repeated softly, testing the name as if it were fragile glass. “Where are your parents? Where do you live?”
At the mention of parents, Leo’s shoulders tightened defensively. He flinched slightly, his eyes darting toward the restaurant’s front windows that looked out onto the rain-slicked avenue. The streetlights outside cast long, golden reflections across the wet pavement, blurring the world outside into an abstract wash of colors.
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“Nowhere,” Leo whispered, his hand finally reaching out with agonizing slowness to pick up the fork. His knuckles were bruised purple, the skin split and raw. He twirled a small amount of spaghetti onto the tines, his hands shaking so badly that a noodle slipped back onto the plate.
Julian gently placed his hand over Leo’s steadying him. It was a simple, wordless gesture of profound solidarity that made a fresh tear spill over Eleanor’s lower lash line, tracking down her cheek.
