The person by the fountain turned slowly, startled.

It was an unfamiliar face—a young woman with an expression of confusion.

It wasn’t her.

Callahan Meyer’s stride faltered, and he nearly stumbled. His heart, which had been hammering just seconds ago, felt as if a physical hand had gripped, crushed, and hollowed it out, leaving behind only a cold, gaping void.

The spark of hope was snuffed out as quickly as it had been struck.

The dizzying freefall from heaven to hell nearly broke him. Startled by his frantic, ghost-like appearance, the woman hurried away. Callahan stood frozen as snowflakes settled on his rigid frame. He couldn’t feel the bite of the wind, nor did he notice the strange looks cast his way by passing pedestrians.

He couldn’t find her.

He had finally, truly lost her.

The realization settled deep into his marrow, carried on the bitter Montreal wind. It froze his blood and locked the breath in his chest.

That night, Callahan wandered into a nondescript bar on the corner and ordered the strongest whiskey available. He downed glass after glass. The alcohol scorched his throat, but it did nothing to touch the arctic chill in his heart.

As his vision blurred, the memories he’d spent so long suppressing—or refusing to acknowledge—surfaced with agonizing clarity.

There were the cautious messages she used to send. *“Callahan, are you coming home for dinner? I made the roast you like.”* His reply had always been the same: *“Busy.”*

She had learned to cook his favorite dishes in secret, even burning her hands in the process, only to present them to him like a treasure. He would take a single bite, frown, and say, “It’s too salty,” before putting down his fork and leaving the rest untouched.

When she was locked in the storage closet, screaming and pounding on the door, he had stood just outside, watching with cold indifference.

When she was beaten until she curled into a ball on the floor, he had stood on the landing above, ordering his security to toss a stack of cash at her like garbage.

She had taken the fall for the woman he truly loved, and he had been the one to personally hand her over to the police.

Callahan slumped over the bar, running a trembling hand through his hair. His breath hitched, and he let out a low, hollow laugh that turned into a ragged sob. His jaw ached from clenching it, and tears spilled out, mixing with the dregs of his drink. His composure had shattered completely.

“What have I... done to her?” he muttered, his voice breaking.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, vibrating incessantly. It took him a long time to fish it out with sluggish, drunken movements. It was his assistant.

He answered, his voice thick. “Speak.”

“Mr. Meyer!” his assistant’s voice was filled with irrepressible excitement. “We found it. We have a hit on Maya Cole’s social security number. She has a record here in Montreal!”

Callahan’s muddled brain sharpened as if injected with adrenaline. He sat bolt upright, the drunken fog clearing instantly. “Tell me everything.”

“She worked a three-day stint at a grocer in Old Montreal, but that was two weeks ago. The owner said she quit because she couldn’t keep up with the physical labor. However, she mentioned that when she left, she asked where she could find a French language school. She wanted to learn the language to improve her job prospects. We followed the lead and found that she signed up for classes at the ‘Alliance’ institute. The courses start next week!”

Next week.

Callahan stood up so abruptly that the world went black for a moment. He gripped the edge of the bar until his knuckles turned white, steadying himself.

“The address. Send it to me now!”

“Yes, sir! Sending it to your phone immediately.”

After hanging up, Callahan stared at the address on his screen. The unfamiliar French street name looked like the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

He wiped his face recklessly, threw a stack of cash onto the counter, and rushed out. The freezing wind and snow hit him, but he didn’t feel the cold—a fire was burning in his chest.

*Maya, this time, I will find you.*

*Wait for me.*

***

Winter in Montreal arrived fast and fierce.

Callahan stood outside the French language school, having waited for over an hour.

At five o’clock on the dot, the doors opened.

Callahan’s heart leaped into his throat, his eyes frantically scouring the crowd.

And then, he saw her.

Maya Cole was walking at the very back, wearing a simple black puffer coat and wrapped in an old gray scarf that made her face appear even paler. She had lost so much weight; her chin was sharp, and her head was slightly bowed. She whispered a few words in French to the blonde girl beside her and offered a faint, fleeting smile.

That smile felt like a needle piercing his heart.

It hurt so much that he couldn’t breathe.

Five years ago, she used to smile at him like that—shy, guarded, and filled with a cautious, quiet joy. Later, those smiles had grown rarer and shallower, until in the end, only exhaustion and dead silence remained in her eyes.

He opened his mouth, but his throat felt constricted, leaving him unable to make a sound.

Maya said goodbye to her classmate and turned to head in the opposite direction.

The moment she turned, her gaze brushed over him—and then, she froze.

She saw him.

Their eyes met.

She looked at him as if he were nothing more than a stray tree by the side of the road, or a total stranger passing by.

Callahan’s heart plummeted into an icy abyss.

“Maya!”

He finally found his voice, calling out in a raspy shout. His body moved on its own accord, and in a few strides, he blocked her path.

Maya stopped and looked up at him.

“Sir,” she said, her voice light, yet every word crystal clear. “Can I help you?”