Part 1

I am Arthur Sterling, and I’ve been searching for my brother, Lucas, since 1994. I was about to find him.

The silence in my penthouse is the most expensive thing I own. It’s a thick, heavy, soundproof silence, bought and paid for by three generations of Sterling real estate money. It stretches across 10,000 square feet of polished marble, glass walls, and art so priceless it’s become meaningless. I am 38 years old, and I am the undisputed king of a silent, empty kingdom.

My days are a blur of contracts, board meetings, and charity galas where I’m applauded for success I never had to earn. But none of it matters. The silence, the deals, the applause… it all just serves as a frame for the one thing in this house that makes a sound: the ghost.

The ghost of my brother, Lucas.

He doesn’t haunt the hallways. He doesn’t rattle chains. He just… hangs there. On the wall of the main corridor, just past the foyer. He’s frozen at four years old, in a portrait my mother commissioned a month before he was taken. The artist had perfectly captured that look in his eyes—a serene, innocent light, a purity that the world hadn’t had time to touch.

He was kidnapped on a Sunday morning in Central Park. I was eight. I was supposed to be watching him, but I was busy trying to skip a rock across the pond. The nanny, she just looked away for a minute, just one. And he was gone. Vanished between the trees.

My father, an influential attorney, tore the city apart. My mother, a concert pianist, descended into a grief so profound her music, and her mind, simply… stopped. The police brought in helicopters, search dogs, and a wave of false hope that crashed against our family for months, then years. Nothing.

The day he was taken, I, an eight-year-old boy, stood in front of my shattered father and made a promise. I swore I would find him. I would bring him back.

Thirty years have passed. My parents are gone. The wealth is all mine. And the promise has become my life’s great, unfulfilled, and festering wound. The portrait is all I have left.

Until that afternoon.

The new cleaning service had sent a new girl. Clara. She’d been working here for two weeks, part of a team that floats through the penthouse like phantoms, polishing surfaces I never use, cleaning rooms I never enter. I’d barely noticed her. She was from the country, they said. Quiet, polite, with a deep sadness in her eyes that I recognized, but never cared to investigate.

I was in my study, deep in a zoning contract, when I heard the sound.

A gasp. A small, choked, hiccup of a sound that shattered the curated silence of my home. It was followed by a sharp rattle, as if a metal bucket had been dropped.

Annoyance pricked me first. I pay for silence. I pay for professionals. I don’t pay for drama.

I strode out of the study and turned the corner into the main hall.

And there she was. Clara.

She was standing frozen in front of the portrait of Lucas. Her cleaning bucket was on its side, gray water and a rag puddled on the marble. She wasn’t looking at the mess. She was staring up at the painting, her entire body trembling. Her face was as white as the wall she was supposed to be cleaning.

“Is there a problem?” I asked. My voice came out colder than I intended.

She didn’t seem to hear me. She was just… whispering. Mumbling something to herself, her eyes wide with a look of terrified recognition.

“Miss… is there a problem?” I said again, louder.

She jumped, spinning around, her expression terrified.

“Mr. Sterling… I… I’m sorry… the bucket… I…”

“Forget the bucket,” I said, my patience thinning.

“The painting. What’s wrong?”

She looked from me, to the painting, and back again. She was wringing her hands in her apron, her knuckles white. She looked like she was going to be sick.

“Sir,” she whispered, her voice shaking so hard I could barely understand her.

“That boy. The… the boy in the painting.”

“What about him?” I said, a dark, cold feeling starting to creep up my spine.

She swallowed, tears welling in her eyes, and took a half-step back, as if I might strike her.

“Sir… this boy… he lived with me.”

The words hung in the air. They made no sense.

“He… what?”

“He lived with me,” she repeated, the tears now streaming down her cheeks.

“At… at the orphanage. St. Vincent’s. He lived with me… until he was fourteen.”

The floor didn’t just drop out from under me. The entire building, the entire city, seemed to vanish. I gripped the doorframe of my study, the marble suddenly feeling like wet sand.

“That’s impossible,” I said, but the words came out as a strangled breath.

“This… this is my brother. He was kidnapped. Thirty years ago.”

“I know,” she sobbed.

“I mean… I… I think I… oh God.”

My first instinct was rage. This was a scam. A sick, cruel, impossibly painful scam. She’d seen the famous portrait—the story of the lost Sterling heir was New York legend—and she was trying to… what? Get money? My hand balled into a fist.

“How dare you,” I growled, taking a step toward her.

“Get out of my house.”

“No!” she cried, flinching back, but she held her ground.

“No, please, sir, you don’t understand! I… I knew him! We called him Daniel! He… he never talked about his family, not really. But… but he always said… he always said he was taken. From a rich family.”

“A common fantasy for orphans,” I spat, my heart hammering against my ribs, a sick mix of fury and a tiny, horrifying spark of… hope.

“No, it wasn’t!” she insisted, her voice gaining a desperate strength.

“They all said he was imagining it. That his parents died in a car crash. That’s what his papers said. But I believed him! He… he used to talk about the house. He said… he said there was a big garden. And a piano. He talked about the piano all the time.”

I stopped. The piano. My mother’s piano. The one that had sat silent in the grand hall ever since…

“He said…” Clara was choking on her own words now, “he said he had an older brother. A brother who… who called him… who called him ‘Champ’.”

The air left my lungs.

Champ.

It was a stupid nickname. A name I’d given him because he could never, ever win at any game we played, but he always kept trying. A name I hadn’t said aloud in thirty years. A name no one on this planet, no one but me, could have possibly known.

I stared at her. This girl, this stranger, this… this ghost who had just walked into my life and detonated it.

The rage was gone, replaced by a cold, terrifying, agonizing hope that felt far worse.

“You’re telling me,” I said, my voice shaking, “that my brother… Lucas… was alive? That he grew up in an orphanage just a few miles from here?”

Clara nodded, wiping her face.

“I… I think so, sir. I never forgot that face. He protected me. He was… he was my brother, too. And then, when he was fourteen… he got in a fight, and he… he ran away. I never saw him again.”

I turned from her and looked at the portrait. The innocent, four-year-old boy stared back at me, his eyes full of a light I now realized hadn’t been extinguished. It had just been… hidden.

He had been alive. All this time. While my mother wasted away. While my father buried himself in his work. While I built this empty, silent tomb. My brother had been just across the river, sleeping in a cot in an orphanage, believing in me. Believing I would keep my promise.

“You,” I said, turning back to Clara, my voice raw with a new, terrible purpose.

“You will tell me everything. Every detail. Every memory. You will tell me now.”

Part 2

The penthouse, my pristine, silent sanctuary, became a war room. The next hour was a blur. I didn’t fire Clara; I hired her. I sat her down at my $100,000 mahogany desk, gave her a bottle of water, and made her talk. She was terrified, but the story poured out of her.

“Daniel,” she said, her voice stronger now, “he was brought to St. Vincent’s when I was five. He was six. The nuns said his name was Daniel Paige. That his adoptive parents had died in a car crash upstate, and he had no other relatives. But he hated that name. He told me, ‘That’s not my name. My name is Lucas.’”

He was smart, she said. Talented. He drew all the time, sketches on scrap paper, on napkins, on the walls. And he drew the same things, over and over. A big house with a garden. A piano. And two boys, one taller, one smaller, holding hands.

“He said,” Clara whispered, her eyes distant, “that his brother promised to find him. He said his brother was his champion. That’s why he called you ‘Champ.’ Because you were his.”

My breath hitched. I had it backward. He wasn’t my champ. I was his.

“He’d watch the news,” she continued, “anytime there was a story about a missing kid. He’d get so quiet. He believed, sir. For years, he believed you were all looking for him.”

“We were,” I choked out. “We… we never stopped.”

“But at fourteen,” Clara said, her face hardening, “something… broke. He got in a fight with an older boy who was making fun of his ‘fantasy family.’ Daniel… he hurt him. Badly. And that night, he was gone. He climbed the wall and ran. I waited. I prayed. But he never came back.”

I was already on the phone. Not to the police. They had failed us. I was calling Hollis.

Hollis is the man you call when you need the impossible found. He’s a private investigator, an ex-Delta operative, and the most expensive, discreet, and ruthless bloodhound on the planet. He costs a fortune, and he’s worth every penny.

“Arthur,” he answered, his voice always a gravelly calm. “It’s 3 AM. This better not be about that zoning permit again.”

“Hollis. It’s Lucas.”

There was a dead silence on the line. Hollis had been my father’s man first. He’d been on the case, off the books, for decades.

“What about him?” Hollis said, his voice suddenly sharp, all business.

“I have a witness, Hollis. A woman. She grew up with him. St. Vincent’s Orphanage. He was there until he was fourteen. He ran away. His name… they called him Daniel Paige.”

Another silence. I heard him typing. “St. Vincent’s. The one in Yonkers? Run by the Sisters of Mercy?”

“That’s the one. I need you here. Now. And I need you to get us in there. Tomorrow.”

“Arthur,” Hollis said, his voice heavy, “that place was shut down years ago. It’s a ruin. But… I know the county clerk. I’ll get the keys. And the records. I’ll pick you and your witness up at 0500.”

He hung up.

I looked at Clara, who was pale with exhaustion. “You’re not going home,” I said. It wasn’t a question. “You’re staying here. You’re the only living link I have to him. You’re not leaving my sight.”

I put her in a guest suite larger than her entire apartment, but I knew neither of us would sleep.

The rest of the night was a long, cold torture. I sat in my study, the 30-year-old case files spread out on my desk. The false leads. The ransom notes that went nowhere. The grainy photos of children in other states who weren’t him. And all of it… all of it was useless.

He had been right there. Right there. Ten miles away. Living under a false name, a false history, while I was traveling to Europe, buying art, building an empire. The guilt was a physical weight, pressing down on my chest, making it hard to breathe.

At 5 AM, Hollis was in my lobby. He was a compact man, with eyes that had seen everything and a face that revealed nothing. He looked at Clara, who was trembling, and just nodded. “Ma’am.”

The drive to Yonkers was silent. The sun was just starting to tint the sky a sickly gray. St. Vincent’s was a wreck. A gothic, red-brick nightmare, covered in ivy, its windows boarded up or smashed. A chain-link fence surrounded it.

Hollis produced a key and cut a padlock. “The city condemned it in ’06. Records are probably all water-damaged. Don’t get your hopes up, Arthur.”

But I already had. My hopes were raging.

The door creaked open, and the smell hit us. Not just dust and rot. It was the smell of old soup, industrial bleach, and forgotten sadness. It was the smell of my brother’s childhood.

“This way,” Clara whispered, her voice shaking. She was our guide. She led us through the dark, silent hallways, her flashlight beam dancing over peeling paint and broken tiles.

“This was the refectory,” she said, pointing to a large, empty room. “This was the chapel…”

“Where are the records?” I asked Hollis, my voice tight.

“Basement, probably,” he grunted.

Clara stopped. She was standing in front of a narrow hallway. “The dorms were up there. The boys’ dorms.”

I don’t know why, but I started walking toward them. “Arthur, wait,” Hollis called. “There’s nothing for us up there.”

But I was already on the stairs. I had to see. I had to know what he saw every night.

The dorm was a long, desolate room, filled with the skeletons of metal bunk beds. The air was thick with dust. My flashlight beam cut through the gloom.

“He was here,” Clara said, her voice echoing in the huge, empty space. “His bed… it was this one. By the window.”

I walked over to it. The old, stained mattress was still there. I looked out the window. It had a perfect, mocking view of the Manhattan skyline, a glittering island of wealth that he could see, but never touch. My home.

“He used to draw on the wall,” Clara said, shining her light on the plaster next to the bed. “The nuns were always punishing him for it, but he never stopped.”

Among the childish graffiti, the names and the dates, there was one drawing, more intricate than the rest. It was faint, in pencil, but it was unmistakable.

A grand house. A piano. And two boys, one tall, one small, holding hands.

My knees buckled. I had to put a hand on the rusty bed frame to hold myself up.

And underneath it, in shaky, childish letters, was a sentence.

I AM LUCAS STERLING. MY BROTHER WILL FIND ME.

I couldn’t breathe. Hollis had come up behind me. He put a hand on my shoulder. “My God,” he whispered. “He was… he was praying. He was leaving a map.”

I didn’t cry. I was beyond tears. I was in a place of cold, pure, white-hot rage.

“Find the records, Hollis,” I said, my voice a low growl. “Find the woman who brought him here.”

We spent four hours in the basement. It was flooded in one corner, and rats skittered in the shadows. But we found it. A steel cabinet, rusted shut. Hollis took a crowbar to it.

The files were damp, yellowed, and smelled of mildew. But they were there. Clara, her hands shaking, found it.

“Paige, Daniel. Admitted: October 12, 1996.”

Two years after the kidnapping.

“Where did he come from?” I demanded.

Hollis scanned the intake form. “Brought in by… a state social worker. Woman named… Teresa Vilar. Notes say ‘Parents (adoptive) deceased, auto accident. No known relatives.’”

“Teresa Vilar,” I said. “Find her.”

“Already on it,” Hollis mumbled, typing into his phone. “But Arthur… look at this.”

He pointed to another document. A birth certificate. It looked new. Too new. “This is a fake,” Hollis said. “A bad one, but good enough for a flooded-out orphanage in the ’90s. The serial number is out of sequence. This… this was a plant. This wasn’t negligence. This was a cover-up.”

“Find Teresa Vilar,” I repeated. “Find her, or find her grave.”

We left that ruin with the drawing and the file. I felt like I was crawling out of a tomb. My brother had been here. He had waited for me. And I had failed.

“Sir,” Clara said softly as we drove back to the city, the sun now high and bright, mocking us. “He ran away. He was fourteen. He was strong. He probably… he probably made it.”

“He’s thirty-four now, Clara,” I said, staring out the window. “If he’s even alive. He’s a ghost. A runaway with a fake name and a lifetime of trauma.”

“Hollis will find him,” she said, with a quiet faith that I didn’t share.

For the next three weeks, Hollis’s team tore the world apart. They were a whirlwind of data mining, interviews, and cold, hard cash. We built a timeline.

“Daniel Paige” didn’t exist before 1996. He did exist after he ran away from St. Vincent’s.

“Got a hit,” Hollis called me, a week later. “Juvenile record. Shoplifting. A shelter in Queens. Age 17. ‘Daniel Paige.’”

We went. The shelter director remembered him. “Smart kid. Too smart for this place. Drew all the time. But angry. A deep, deep anger. He stayed three months, then vanished again. Got a photo, though.”

He pulled out a blurry, black-and-white intake photo. It was him. Older, gaunt, his eyes hard and suspicious, but it was him. The Sterling eyes. My eyes.

He was alive. At least, he was at 17.

The trail went cold again. For years. It was as if he’d ceased to exist.

“He’s a ghost, Arthur,” Hollis told me, sitting in my study, the bill for his services on the table. “He’s off the grid. No license, no credit, no social. He’s probably living cash-to-cash, or he’s… not.”

“He’s alive,” I insisted, though my own hope was failing. “Keep looking.”

Clara, in that time, had become… essential. She wasn’t a maid anymore. She was my associate, my confidante. She sat with me, night after night, going over the files. She remembered things. “He hated the color green. It reminded him of the uniforms.” “He was allergic to peanuts.” “He… he loved the rain.”

She was the keeper of his memory. She was the only other person on Earth who was grieving for Daniel.

Then, six weeks after we’d first gone to the orphanage, Hollis called me at 2 AM. I hadn’t been sleeping anyway.

“I found her,” he said.

“Lucas?” my heart leaped.

“No. Teresa Vilar. The social worker. She’s retired, living in a nursing home in New Jersey. Dementia. But… I got to her. And I got her files. Her private files.”

“And?”

“It’s bad, Arthur. It’s worse than we thought. The woman who brought Lucas to the orphanage… she wasn’t a social worker. She was a private nurse.”

“A nurse? For who?”

“A family,” Hollis said, his voice flat. “A wealthy, childless couple from Connecticut. They couldn’t adopt legally. So they… acquired one. They paid a network. Lucas was stolen for them.”

I felt sick. “The car crash…”

“It was real,” Hollis said. “That’s the sick part. The nurse, Teresa, she was paid to create a new identity for ‘Daniel Paige,’ the son of this couple. But two years after they took him, they died in a car crash. The nurse, panicked, and with a six-year-old boy she couldn’t explain, dumped him at the first available place: St. Vincent’s. She used the fake papers she’d already created, claimed she was a social worker, and washed her hands of him.”

My brother had been orphaned. Twice.

“So he’s… he’s gone,” I whispered. “The trail is dead. That couple is dead. The nurse has dementia. It’s over.”

“No,” Hollis said. “Not quite. The nurse’s files had one more thing. The couple’s lawyer. He’d set up a small trust for the boy, under the fake name, in case something happened. The trust was never claimed. But it got a ping. Last year.”

I sat up. “A ping? What kind of ping?”

“A hospital,” Hollis said. “A ‘Daniel Lucas.’ He was admitted to a public hospital in Asheville, North Carolina, in 2012. He was 30 years old. Severe injuries, hit-and-run. He was a John Doe for a week, and they ran his prints. The prints matched the juvenile record for ‘Daniel Paige.’ The trust pinged the lawyer’s office. The lawyer forwarded the info to the hospital. By the time they got it all sorted… he was gone. Checked himself out against medical advice.”

“Asheville,” I said. “He’s in North Carolina.”

“Maybe,” Hollis said. “But here’s the part you need to hear. He was admitted with ‘partial amnesia.’ Head trauma. He couldn’t remember his name, his past… anything. ‘Daniel Paige’ was just a name on a file. He might not even know who he is, Arthur.”

A new, colder dread filled me. We were looking for a man who didn’t even know he was lost.

“What else?” I demanded.

“The doctor. The one who treated him. I spoke to him. An old-timer, Dr. Whelan. He said the guy was quiet, introspective. And… he drew. Constantly.”

“What did he draw?” I whispered, already knowing the answer.

“Whelan said it was strange. ‘He drew pianos,’ he said. ‘Over and over. Pianos, and pictures of little kids holding hands.’”

My God. Even with his memory wiped, the ghost was still there.

“Whelan said before he left, he asked him where he was going. The guy just said, ‘I… I have to go to a place. A bad place. St. Vincent’s. I think… I think I was waiting for someone there.’”

He went back. He went back to the orphanage.

“Clara,” I yelled.

She ran into the study, her robe pulled tight. “What is it?”

“We’re going back,” I said, my voice shaking. “We’re going back to St. Vincent’s. He was there.”

We drove, this time in the dead of night. We didn’t wait for Hollis. I couldn’t.

We entered the ruin again, just me and Clara, our flashlights cutting through the oppressive dark. We went straight to the dorm. To his bed.

The drawing was still there. “I am Lucas Sterling.”

“He came back here,” I whispered, my light scanning the walls, the floor. “He came back, looking for an answer…”

“Arthur.”

Clara’s voice was faint. She was standing in the center of the room. Her light was pointed at the main wall, opposite the bunks.

It was covered in graffiti. Years of it.

But in one spot, in large, angry letters, scrawled in what looked like charcoal from a fire, was a new message. One that hadn’t been there on our first visit.

I CAME BACK. BUT NO ONE WAS WAITING.

The words hit me like a physical blow. I sank to my knees on the dusty floor. He had come. He had come back to the only home he knew, searching for the brother who had made him a promise.

And I wasn’t there. I had failed him. Utterly.

Clara was crying, silent tears in the dark.

“It’s over,” I whispered. “He’s gone. He gave up. He… he’s lost.”

“No,” Clara said, her voice surprisingly fierce. She grabbed my arm, hauling me to my feet. “No. You don’t know him. Daniel… Lucas… he never gives up. He’s a survivor. He just… he just forgot who he’s surviving for.”

Her strength pulled me out of the despair. She was right.

“He’s an artist,” I said, the pieces clicking. “He draws. He’s in or around Asheville. He’s alive.”

I got on the phone to Hollis. “Forget ‘Daniel Paige.’ Forget ‘Lucas Menezes’ or ‘Sterling.’ I want you to find an artist. A street artist, a sketch artist, anything. Thirties. Lives in or around Asheville. Specializes in drawing pianos or children. Go. Now.”

It took Hollis four days.

“Got him,” the call came. “It’s a long shot, Arthur, but it’s the only one I’ve got. There’s a small arts festival in a town in the Blue Ridge Mountains. An hour outside Asheville. There’s an artist there. Sells charcoal portraits of children. His work is… haunting. He’s registered under the name… ‘Lucas M.’ Just ‘Lucas.’”

We were on my jet within the hour.

The town was small, colorful, nestled in the mountains. The fair was in the town square. Tents, laughter, the smell of roasted nuts. It felt like another world.

My heart was in my throat. Every face I saw wasn’t his.

“He’s not here,” I muttered, the despair creeping back in.

“Wait,” Clara said, grabbing my arm. She was pointing.

Under a small, simple white tent, at the edge of the fair, a man was sitting on a stool. He had a short beard, streaked with a little gray. His clothes were simple, worn. He was leaning over a sketchpad, his hand moving with a delicate, practiced grace. He was painting the portrait of a little girl who sat in front of him.

His posture. The way he held his head. There was something… familiar.

“Is it him?” I whispered.

“I… I don’t know,” Clara said. “He’s… older.”

The little girl’s mother paid him, and she laughed, taking the portrait. The artist smiled back. A small, sad, quiet smile.

Clara gasped. “That’s his smile.”

She started walking. I followed, my legs feeling like lead.

She stopped in front of his tent. He was cleaning his brushes, not looking up.

“Daniel?” Clara whispered.

The man froze. His hand stopped moving. Slowly, he lifted his head.

His eyes. My God, his eyes. They were the same. The same serene, innocent light from the portrait, just… clouded. Haunted.

He looked at Clara, his expression one of profound, utter confusion.

“I… I know you,” he murmured, his voice hesitant, rough. “From… from the home. St. Vincent’s. You’re… Clara.”

Clara burst into tears, a sob of joy and pain. “Yes,” she cried. “It’s me. It’s you, Daniel.”

He stood up, his eyes darting between her and me. He was scared. A cornered animal. “How… how did you find me? I… I don’t…”

“Lucas,” I said. My voice was broken.

He flinched, his head snapping toward me. “What… what did you call me?”

“Lucas,” I said again. I was fumbling in my coat pocket, my hands shaking so violently I could barely function. I pulled it out. The drawing. The one he had drawn on the wall of the orphanage, the one I had cut from the plaster.

I held it out to him.

“You made this,” I said, my own tears blinding me. “You… you were waiting for me. I… I’m Arthur. I’m your brother.”

He stared at the drawing. He didn’t take it. He just… stared. His eyes traced the lines of the house. The piano. The two small boys.

“The house…” he whispered, a look of pain crossing his face. “The… the music. I… I dream about it. I dream about… a piano.”

“It’s real, Lucas,” I said, stepping closer. “It’s all real. I’m real.”

He looked from the drawing, to my face. His eyes searched mine, desperately. And then… something broke. The 30-year-old dam of amnesia, of trauma, of lies. It just… shattered.

“I… I had a brother,” he choked out, his hand coming to his mouth. “He… he called me… no… I called him… ‘Champ.’”

“I’m here, Champ,” I said, though he was the one who’d done the real fighting.

He collapsed. He didn’t just cry. He howled. A raw, 30-year-old sound of pain and loss and, finally, release.

I caught him. I held him. Two men, in our forties, holding each other in the middle of a craft fair, trying to reclaim a lifetime that had been stolen from us.

Clara had her arms around both of us, her own tears baptizing our reunion.

“I found you,” I whispered into his hair, just as I had promised an eight-year-old boy. “I found you, Lucas. I’m home.”

The days that followed were a dream. The doctors confirmed it: profound psychological trauma and memory blocks, exacerbated by the head injury. But with me, with Clara, the memories began to return. Not in a flood, but in sparks.

The smell of my mother’s perfume. The feel of the ivory keys under his small hands. The taste of the strawberries from our garden.

He came back to the penthouse. He walked through the halls, his hand trailing on the walls, as if he were waking from a long sleep. He stopped in front of his own portrait.

He looked at the four-year-old boy, then at Clara, then at me.

“I thought… I thought you all forgot me.”

“Never,” I said. “I looked for you my whole life.”

Clara, who was standing beside me, her hand in mine, just smiled through her tears. “We were just waiting for you to come home.”

That night, for the first time in thirty years, I uncovered the keys of my mother’s piano. The dust rose in the lamplight.

I sat. I played the first, halting notes of a lullaby she used to sing to us.

Lucas sat beside me. He watched my hands. And then, tentatively, his own hands, the hands of an artist, found the keys. He began to play, improvising a harmony.

The music filled the silent, empty mansion. It filled the 30-year-old hole in my heart. The ghost was gone.

My brother was home.

I decided not to pursue charges against the nurse. The past had taken enough from us. Instead, I created a new future.

The Sterling Foundation for Missing Children was opened six months later. It’s dedicated to funding investigations for families who can’t afford a Hollis, and to supporting orphanages so no child ever falls through the cracks again.

Clara, of course, is the director. She’s the heart of the whole operation.

And Lucas, now a world-renowned artist, painted the logo. It hangs in the lobby, a massive, beautiful canvas.

It’s a picture of a grand house, and a piano. And two boys, holding hands, finally walking out of the dark.