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Snow pressed against the windows of a modest wooden house, muffling the sounds of the outside world.
Inside, an old Black man lay on a narrow bed, his breathing shallow but steady, as if each breath were carefully measured.
Daniel Cross had lived long enough to become invisible.
His hands—once strong enough to bend iron—now trembled as they rested atop a thin wool blanket.
Around him stood his wife, her hair silvered by time, their children grown, and grandchildren who knew him only as a gentle man who spoke little and watched everything.
When the moment came, Daniel turned his head slightly.
His lips brushed his wife’s ear.
“I found them all… just as I promised.”