Winston stepped out of the sedan into the biting winter air, his breath fogging in front of him as he made his way toward the mansion's grand entrance, already anticipating another silent, grief-filled evening. He stopped short at the sight of a small figure waiting near the front steps — a young girl, barefoot despite the snow, wrapped in clothes too thin and threadbare for the weather, clutching a black trash bag in one hand and a cardboard box carefully against her chest with the other.
"Can I help you?" Winston asked, his voice carrying confused concern as he took in her bare, reddened feet against the snow-dusted steps.
The girl looked up at him with wide, serious eyes, her voice steady despite the visible cold. "Sir, I found your son behind your mansion."
Winston felt something in his chest seize entirely, disbelief and a desperate, fragile hope warring instantly against three months of accumulated grief. "That's not possible," he managed, though he was already moving closer, his eyes fixed on the box she held.