“Sir, this boy lived with me at the orphanage until he was fourteen,” said the cleaning lady, her voice trembling as it echoed through the silent hallway of the mansion. The sound shattered the calm luxury that filled the place.
Arthur Menezes froze before the old portrait hanging on the wall. It felt as if the floor beneath him had disappeared. The boy in the painting looked exactly like his younger brother—his brother who had vanished more than thirty years ago.
A lump formed in his throat. The same gaze. The same hair. The same pure expression he remembered from his childhood. The woman’s hands shook.“I knew him as Daniel,” she whispered. “He never spoke of his family.”Arthur’s breath caught. “You’re sure?”“Yes, sir. I grew up with him. He protected me when no one else did.”
