The Story Starts Below
Every Friday morning, Mia waits on our porch, tiny hands clutching a paper towel-wrapped cupcake. Her blonde hair bounces as she hops in place, watching for the garbage truck.
When it finally pulls up, she lights up like it’s Christmas. The driver, Tom, steps down, silent as always, and accepts the treat with a nod.
I assumed it was just a sweet routine. But today, I watched more closely. He looked different—eyes sadder, hands slower—and something in my gut told me to follow him afterward.