Chapter 5

Forcing myself behind the wheel, I drove straight to the police station.

Dawn had barely broken by the time I arrived.

The moment I pushed the door open, a wave of severe dizziness hit me, and my eyes locked onto a literal skeleton sitting in a wheelchair.

He was so starved that he barely looked human, his eyes bulging unnervingly from their sockets. His arms hung limply at his sides like brittle twigs.

His skin was darkened with filth, making it entirely impossible to associate him with a normal child.

I glanced at the frail figure before rushing desperately toward the front desk. "Hello, where is my baby?" I asked.

The officer who had handled my case countless times pointed toward the wheelchair with a grim expression.

He lowered his voice. "Ms. Jones, I warned you to mentally prepare yourself."

As he spoke, he handed me a medical report. "He is missing a kidney and a large portion of his liver. His abdomen is covered in jagged, crude surgical scars.

"Multiple wounds on his left leg are severely infected and rapidly deteriorating. Preliminary assessments indicate an urgent need for amputation. He has suffered catastrophic physical and psychological trauma, making his future prognosis incredibly uncertain."

The little boy seated in that wheelchair looked even less like my precious son than Nathan did.

My son was a lively boy gliding across the ice rink, and his eyes were as bright as polished sapphires.

He used to mimic my husband, bringing me water and looking after me.

Now, he sat in a wheelchair, emaciated and lifeless, sneaking a vacant yet panicked glance towards me.

The station felt pleasantly warm, yet I sensed a blade of solid ice plunging directly into my chest, twisting violently around my heart.

At the exact same time, my body felt suspended over a boiling vat of oil, scorched by unforgiving flames. I could practically hear the searing sizzle of my own flesh.

Tears welled up in my eyes, but I ruthlessly forced them back down.

I knew I needed to put on a joyful face to take him home.

I remained the only person in this cruel world he could safely rely on.

By the time I turned around, the glint of unshed tears had entirely faded from my eyes.

I walked up to the wheelchair and slowly lowered myself to eye level.

The child instantly recoiled in pure terror, desperately trying to shrink backward.

However, the metal frame trapped him entirely, and he clearly lacked the knowledge of how to operate the wheels.

Unable to escape, he raised his arms in a sheer panic, covering his head protectively.

A split second later, trembling violently, he shifted his hands down to shield his stomach.

I wanted to reach out and stroke his hands, but I forcefully stopped myself.

I rose to my feet and stepped behind his wheelchair to push it.

The moment I forced a sound out, it felt as though my soul had completely detached from my physical body, floating weightlessly above the room.

"Come home with me, Anton," I murmured.

*****

A full month passed before Edward attempted to contact me again using yet another new number.

I was sitting in the hospital room, carefully spoon-feeding medicine to Anton, who was recovering from the amputation of his left leg.

For thirty days, I hadn't left his side for a single second. Because of that, he was slowly shedding his constant state of sheer terror.

His psychological state was improving at a slow pace, but his physical condition was a terrifying downhill spiral.

The loss of a kidney had triggered early-stage uremia. Severe liver damage had cascaded into hepatitis and cirrhosis, all compounded by profound anemia caused by long-term malnutrition.

A year in the hands of the traffickers had reduced my brilliant, sweet child to a shattered shell of a boy.

When the test results were delivered, the doctor said, "You need to prepare yourself mentally."

The police had told me those exact same devastating words weeks ago.

My hands shook violently as I held the small bowl. I forced a cheerful smile, bringing the spoon up to his lips.

He used to be brave, never needing any coaxing to take his medicine.

Now, I pleaded with him in the softest voice imaginable. "I added a tiny bit of sugar. The doctor said it was perfectly fine. Have a sip, Anton. It doesn't taste bitter at all."

He stared at me blankly. A long moment passed before he slightly parted his dry lips and murmured, "Mom."

More than a year after we were separated, he had stayed silent. But now, for the very first time, he finally called me "Mom."

My hand violently jerked. The bowl and spoon slipped from my fingers, shattering against the floor with a loud crash. Ceramic fragments scattered everywhere.

Trembling uncontrollably, I dropped to my knees, cutting my fingers as I hastily scrambled to pick up the pieces.

The dam broke. My tears fell in heavy drops onto the floor.

I bit down hard on my lip desperately to swallow my sobs, my throat choked with the bitter taste of blood.

Then, I heard Anton's voice again.

Perhaps because he had gone so long without uttering a single word, his voice came out raspy and strained.

"I-I am okay. It doesn't hurt anymore," he said.

I buried my face in my hands.

On the nightstand, my phone began to ring. It was an unfamiliar number.

I swiped to answer it, still fighting back heavy sobs.

Edward's voice drifted through the speaker.

After a brief pause, his tone carried an unsettling hint of anxiety and confusion.

"What exactly is wrong with you?" he asked.