The rain had started hours ago, washing the streets in a cold metallic gray. Claire Dupont pulled her shawl tighter as she swept the Harrington estate steps. Then she saw it — a shadow by the gate.
A boy. Maybe seven. Thin as wire. His eyes were too calm for a child’s.
“Are you lost?” she asked gently.
He shook his head. “Hungry.” That one word pierced her heart. Knowing her employer, Mr. Richard Harrington, was away, she hesitated only a second before opening the gate.
“Come,” she whispered.
The boy followed silently.
The Forbidden Kindness
In the kitchen, Claire warmed soup and bread. The boy sat perfectly still, hands folded, watching her with eerie stillness.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Lucas,” he said.
He ate, but not like a starving child — more like someone used to measuring each movement. Each bite.
“Where are your parents?” she asked.
He looked up, eyes empty. “Gone.”
She swallowed. “You poor thing.”
But something about the way he said it made her uneasy. Then the sound came — the unmistakable slam of the front door. Mr. Harrington was home. Early.
Claire froze. He walked into the kitchen moments later — tall, severe, eyes as sharp as glass.
“Who is this?” he demanded.
“I… found him outside,” Claire stammered. “He was starving—”
“Get out,” Richard said. “Now.”
She stepped back, but not before seeing something terrifying flash across his face: not anger. Recognition.
Secrets in the Walls
That night, Claire couldn’t sleep. Something about the boy haunted her. When she passed the study later, she heard voices — Richard’s deep baritone, and a child’s whisper.
“You promised you’d come back,” the boy said.
“I had no choice,” Richard replied hoarsely. “You weren’t supposed to be here.”
“I waited,” the boy said. “Just like last time.”
Claire’s blood ran cold. The next morning, the boy was gone.
Days later, while cleaning the east wing — a part of the mansion no one used — Claire noticed a locked door she had never seen before. From beneath it came the faint sound of humming. A lullaby.
The same tune she’d heard the boy hum while eating. Her hands shook as she used the master key. Inside, she found a small room — children’s drawings on the wall, toys covered in dust. And on the mantel — a photograph. Richard Harrington, a woman, and a boy. The same boy.
The date on the frame: 2011. Fourteen years ago. The boy hadn’t aged a day.
When she confronted Richard that evening, he looked at her with hollow eyes.
“You shouldn’t have gone in there.”
“What is he?” she whispered. “Who is he?”
He sank into a chair, his voice barely audible. “My son. He died in this house fourteen years ago. Fever. My wife couldn’t bear it — she took her life soon after.”
Claire trembled. “Then who— what— did I see?”
He looked up at her. “You saw him because I did.”
“I don’t understand.”
Richard smiled faintly — brokenly. “Guilt doesn’t fade, Miss Dupont. Sometimes… it comes home.”
That night, she awoke to the sound of laughter echoing through the halls — a child’s laughter. She followed it to the kitchen. The door was ajar. Inside, Richard sat at the table. Across from him — the boy. Eating stew. Smiling. But the chair across from Richard was empty. Claire backed away slowly, heart racing. And from behind her, a small voice whispered — right by her ear:
“He always forgets I died here first.”
The next morning, the house was empty. Richard Harrington was gone. Only the photograph remained — on the kitchen table, freshly wiped clean. In it, Claire could swear the boy was smiling differently than before… And under it, a note in a child’s scrawl: “Thank you for feeding me again.”