Mark had patrolled these forests for twenty years, but nothing prepared him for what he found that gray afternoon. The usual rhythm of snapping twigs and cawing crows broke differently this time. A child sat alone on the moss-covered stump in a small clearing, calm, silent… almost too calm.
The boy looked no older than six, wearing a soaked blue jacket, shoulders slumped with a weariness that didn’t belong to someone his age. Most lost children panic; this one did not.
“Hey there,” Mark said gently, keeping his distance. “What are you doing out here all alone?”
“My mom told me to wait,” the boy replied quietly. “She said she’d be back soon.”
A knot tightened in Mark’s stomach. Something was wrong. The boy—Tom—could barely recall when his mother had left. His thin jacket and chattering teeth betrayed the creeping cold of early hypothermia.
Then Mark noticed a crumpled sheet of paper tucked in Tom’s pocket. “Mom gave it to me,” he whispered.
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