Chapter 1: The Empty Space
“Why do you draw them everywhere?””
Leah's voice was gentle, but the question landed hard.
Eight-year-old Ava didn't look up.
She sat cross-legged on the warm sidewalk outside Daniel's neighborhood grocery store, one knee poking through the hole in her worn jeans. Her oversized gray hoodie swallowed most of her small frame. One shoelace was missing, and the rubber on the toe of her left shoe had peeled away.
In her hand was a black crayon worn down almost to a stub.
She pressed it against a torn piece of cardboard and dragged a careful line across the surface.
A man's shoulders.
A woman's hair.
A little boy standing between them.
And beside the boy, an empty space.
Leah stepped farther out of the store, still holding a box of canned goods.
The afternoon traffic moved behind her. A city bus hissed at the nearby stop. Grocery bags rustled in the breeze. Someone had left chalk drawings along the pavement—flowers, stars, a crooked sun.
But every drawing belonged to Ava.
And every single one showed the same family.
Leah slowly put the box down.
“Ava,” she said, kneeling.
“Why do you keep drawing them?””
Ava's crayon stopped.
She glanced at Leah.
Her eyes were serious in a way Leah had learned not to expect from children.
Ava didn't answer.
Instead, she reached for another piece of cardboard lying beside her.
Leah picked it up first.
Same father.
Same mother.
Same little boy.
Same empty space.
Leah's forehead creased.
She looked around.
There were drawings taped beneath the bus-stop bench. More tucked beside the grocery store's brick wall. One was drawn directly onto a flattened grocery bag in blue marker.
Another had been scratched into wet sidewalk chalk.
Always the same four shapes.
Except there were only three people.
Leah held the cardboard closer.
“Is this your family?””
Ava shook her head.
“Then who are they?””
Ava lowered her eyes.
Leah softened her voice.
“You can tell me.””
A long silence passed.
Then Ava lifted one small finger and pointed to the empty space beside the drawn family.
“That’s me.””
Leah stopped breathing for half a second.
“What?””
Ava tapped the empty space again.
“That’s me.””
Leah looked at the picture.
The father stood on the left, tall and broad-shouldered.
The mother stood beside him.
The little boy was holding the mother's hand.
And there was room for another child.
Ava.
Leah swallowed.
“You mean… you think you're supposed to be standing there?””
Ava finally looked directly at her.
“I know.””
A bus pulled away from the stop, throwing a gust of warm air across the sidewalk.
Leah stared at the child.
“Where are your parents?””
Ava shrugged.
“Don't know.””
“Do you live around here?””
Another shrug.
Leah noticed the dark circles beneath Ava's eyes.
“When did you last eat?””
Ava didn't answer.
That answer was enough.
Leah stood.
“Come inside.””
Ava immediately shook her head.
“No.””
“Why not?””
“Daniel doesn't like me inside.””
Leah glanced toward the grocery store.
Through the front window, Daniel was visible behind the register, talking to a customer.
Daniel was the owner.
Early forties. Always pressed shirt. Always clean shoes.
Always remembered customers' names. He donated food during winter and let neighborhood kids cool off inside when the heat got brutal.
He was the kind of man people trusted.
Leah looked back at Ava.
“Did Daniel say that?””
Ava nodded.
“When?””
Ava pressed the crayon harder into the cardboard.
“When he saw my drawings.””
Leah crouched again.
“What did he say?””
Ava's mouth tightened.
“He said I was drawing the wrong people.””
Leah felt a strange chill despite the heat.
“The wrong people?””
Ava nodded.
Then she pointed at the father in the drawing.
“He doesn't know I'm alive.””
Leah froze.
“What did you just say?””
Ava's finger remained on the drawing.
“He doesn't know I'm alive.””
For the first time, Leah really looked at the man's face.
It was crudely drawn.
Two dark eyes.
A straight nose.
A small line for a mouth.
But something about the shape of the jaw made her uncomfortable.
Leah glanced through the window again.
Daniel laughed at something the customer said.
Then he turned slightly.
Leah's stomach dropped.
The face in Ava's drawing wasn't perfect.
But it was close.
Too close.
Leah looked back at Ava.
“Who is he?””
Ava didn't answer.
Instead, she reached into the pocket of her oversized hoodie.
Her fingers curled around something.
She pulled out a tiny folded photograph.
The edges were yellow and soft from years of handling.
Ava held it toward Leah.
Leah hesitated.
Then she took it.
She unfolded the photograph.
Her face changed instantly.
The photograph showed a much younger Daniel.
Maybe fifteen years younger.
He was standing beside a smiling Black woman with one hand resting gently against her stomach.
The woman was pregnant.
Daniel was smiling at the camera.
And beneath them, written in faded ink, was a date.
Leah's eyes moved back to Daniel inside the store.
Then to the photograph.
Then to Ava.
Her voice came out barely above a whisper.
“No…”
Ava watched her.
Leah turned the photograph over.
On the back was a handwritten note.
And a date.
The exact year Daniel had told everyone his wife had lost their baby.
Leah's fingers began shaking.
“No,” she whispered again.
Behind her, the grocery-store door opened.
Daniel stepped onto the sidewalk.
He looked at Leah.
Then at Ava.
Then at the photograph in Leah's trembling hand.
His face went completely still.
“Where did she get that?””
Ava looked up at him.
Leah couldn't move.
Daniel took one step closer.
“Ava,” he said quietly, “where did you get that picture?””
Ava opened her mouth.
But before she could answer, Leah noticed something else written beneath the date.
May you like
Two initials.
And they were Daniel's.
