THE SON THEY BURIED WAS THEIR ONLY HEIR

Chapter Nine: The Forgotten Home

The city had long surrendered to the night.

Streetlights cast pale circles across deserted roads as Benedict's car rolled steadily through the older district of Havenridge.

This part of the city had once been full of life.

Now...

Most of its buildings stood abandoned.

Shuttered shops lined the streets.

Faded signboards swayed gently in the cool breeze.

Broken sidewalks bore the weight of decades of neglect.

Benedict slowed as the navigation reached its destination.

Ahead stood a pair of rusted iron gates.

Above them hung a weathered stone arch.

Though cracked by time, the faded inscription remained visible.

St. Gabriel Children's Home

Benedict switched off the engine.

He sat there for a while, just looking at the building on the other side of the gates, his eyes fixed on it for several seconds.

An unfamiliar heaviness settled over his chest.

He had never been here.

At least...

That was what he had always believed.

Yet something about the place felt strangely familiar.

He stepped from the car.

As he gave the old gates a gentle push, they let out a soft creak, the sound echoing through the air.

The courtyard beyond was overgrown with weeds.

A rusted swing moved gently in the wind.

Its chains squeaked rhythmically.

Back...

And forth.

Back...

And forth.

Benedict stopped walking.

The sound stirred something deep inside him.

A child's laughter echoed faintly through his mind.

A tiny hand reaching toward the swing.

Then...

Silence.

The memory vanished before he could grasp it.

He closed his eyes briefly.

"Why does this place feel like home "

The orphanage building itself showed every sign of age.

Paint peeled from the place's old windows, which had been boarded shut.

Rainwater had stained the stone exterior.

Yet someone had recently unlocked the front door.

It stood slightly open.

Benedict's instincts sharpened.

This wasn't a coincidence.

Someone had expected him.

He pushed the heavy wooden door inward.

The entrance hall was dark.

Only moonlight streamed through the cracked windows.

Dust floated lazily through the air.

Old photographs still decorated the walls.

Children smiling.

Caretakers standing proudly beside them.

Christmas celebrations.

School Graduations.

Birthdays.

Lives that had once filled these halls.

Benedict walked slowly through the corridor.

Each step echoed softly.

Suddenly...

A familiar scent drifted through the air.

Fresh roses.

His heart skipped a beat.

The same fragrance.

The forgotten garden.

The white ribbon.

The elderly woman's clothes.

It couldn't be a coincidence.

A faint voice broke the silence.

"I knew you'd come."

Benedict turned immediately.

An old priest walked into the hallway, holding a lantern in his hand.

His silver hair was neatly combed.

His black clerical robe showed signs of careful repair.

Though age had bent his shoulders slightly...

His eyes remained clear.

Wise.

Kind.

"You've been expecting me?"

The priest smiled gently.

"For many years."

Benedict frowned.

"I'm afraid we've never met."

The old priest looked at him for a long moment.

"No."

"You simply don't remember."

Those words settled heavily between them.

Benedict remained silent.

The priest motioned toward a nearby room.

"Come."

"There are some stories..."

"...that should never be told while standing in a hallway."

Benedict followed.

The office was modest.

Books lined the shelves.

A wooden cross hung above the desk.

There was a picture on the wall, a little worn, showing a group of kids standing around a Christmas tree.

The priest placed the lantern on the desk.

"My name is Father Michael."

I've been running this orphanage for thirty-two years, ever since I took on the role of director.

Benedict looked around the room.

"You knew the elderly woman?"

Father Michael's smile softened.

"Margaret?"

"Yes."

"We cared for many children together."

Benedict's breathing slowed.

"So her name is Margaret."

Father Michael nodded.

"She always believed one child would return."

"He promised her that."

Benedict looked up sharply.

"What child?"

The old priest held his gaze.

"A little boy..."

"...everyone called Little Ben."

The room became completely still.

Benedict felt the air leave his lungs.

For the second time in as many days...

Someone had spoken that name.

Not as a guess.

Not as a mistake.

But with certainty.

Father Michael slowly pulled out one of the drawers on his desk.

Inside rested an old leather-bound register.

Its pages had yellowed with age.

He carefully turned several pages.

Then stopped.

His smile faded.

His expression became troubled.

"No..."

"That can't be."

Benedict stepped closer.

"What is it?"

Father Michael stared silently at the book.

Several pages had been cut out with extraordinary precision.

Not torn.

Removed.

Deliberately.

Someone...

Had erased part of the orphanage's

history.

The room fell into a heavy silence.

Father Michael continued staring at the orphanage register.

His weathered hands trembled slightly as they rested on the worn pages.

"No..."

he whispered.

I took a look at this book just a little while back.

Benedict stepped closer.

"What do you mean?"

The old priest slowly looked up.

"These pages weren't missing."

"They've been removed recently."

Benedict lowered his eyes to the register.

The cuts were clean.

Precise.

Made with a sharp blade.

Whoever had done it hadn't acted in haste.

They knew exactly which pages they wanted to include.

Father Michael gently turned another page.

"They didn't steal the book."

"They stole one child's history."

A chill ran through Benedict.

He asked quietly,

"Mine?"

The priest met his eyes.

"I believe so."

Father Michael walked to a tall wooden cabinet in the corner of the office.

He pulled down an old box from the top shelf; it was made of cardboard and had faded a lot.

Dust covered its lid.

I just couldn't bring myself to get rid of them; they meant too much to me.

He carefully placed the box on the desk.

Inside were dozens of old drawings.

Handmade birthday cards.

School certificates.

Tiny knitted scarves donated by volunteers.

Memories of children who had long since grown up.

Benedict picked up one of the drawings.

A child's crayon picture of a house beneath a bright yellow sun.

At the bottom of the page, some words were scribbled in messy handwriting.

"Thank you, Sister Margaret."

A faint smile touched Father Michael's face.

"She never forgot a birthday."

There were times when things were really tough, like when we barely had enough money to buy bread, but somehow we made do.

Benedict thought of the notebook Margaret had left behind.

Every child's birthday is carefully recorded.

Some people served with wealth.

Others...

With love.

The old priest reached deeper into the box.

"This..."

he murmured,

"...is what I was looking for."

He unfolded a faded photograph.

The old photograph depicted a scene from nearly thirty years ago, showing a group of young children gathered in front of the orphanage, their faces filled with a mix of curiosity and innocence.

Some smiled brightly.

Others looked shy.

Volunteers stood behind them.

Sister Margaret was among them.

Father Michael pointed toward the front row.

"There."

Benedict leaned closer.

A little boy stood near Margaret.

He was just a little boy, probably no more than four years old at the time.

His face was partly hidden behind another child.

But one detail was unmistakable.

Around the little boy's wrist...

It was a tiny silver bracelet.

It was just like the one Benedict had discovered under the old oak tree, a spot that seemed to hold a special kind of significance.

Engraved with one word.

Ben.

Benedict's fingers tightened around the photograph.

His breathing became uneven.

"That's..."

Father Michael nodded.

"Little Ben."

The room seemed to grow smaller.

For the first time...

Benedict wasn't looking at a stranger's memory.

He was looking at himself.

Before either man could speak again—

A loud crash echoed through the building.

Glass shattered somewhere down the corridor.

Both men turned instantly.

Father Michael grabbed the lantern.

"Stay behind me."

Benedict gently stopped him.

"No."

"I'll go."

The corridor was dark.

Moonlight spilled across broken glass scattered over the wooden floor.

One of the side windows had been smashed.

Cold air swept through the building.

Benedict immediately noticed fresh footprints in the dust.

Someone had been there only moments earlier.

He followed them to the rear exit.

The door still swung gently on its hinges.

Outside...

An engine roared to life.

By the time Benedict reached the courtyard...

A black SUV disappeared around the corner.

Too far away to identify.

Too fast to pursue.

He looked down.

Something had been left behind.

A black leather glove.

Inside the cuff...

Embroidered in silver thread...

Was a single chess knight.

The same symbol.

The mastermind's signature.

When Benedict returned to Father Michael's office...

The old priest stood frozen beside the desk.

His face had turned pale.

"They took it."

"What?"

"The photograph."

Benedict looked down.

The picture of Little Ben was gone.

Only the empty envelope remained.

"They wanted to make sure you couldn't keep it."

Father Michael whispered.

"But they were too late."

He tapped his forehead.

"I've looked at that photograph hundreds of times."

"I'll never forget what I saw."

Benedict remained silent.

The mastermind wasn't simply watching him.

He was following him.

Every step.

Every discovery.

Every answer.

Someone...

Was reporting Benedict's movements almost immediately.

Across the city...

The elderly mastermind stood before a fireplace, calmly feeding old papers into the flames.

The younger man entered.

"We destroyed the photograph."

The old man nodded.

"And Benedict?"

"He saw it first."

For the first time that evening...

The old man's smile faded.

"So..."

"The past has finally shown him its face."

He watched the paper curl into ashes.

"It doesn't matter."

One picture can't undo thirty years of hard work and planning, no matter how powerful it may be.

He turned toward the younger man.

"But from tonight onward..."

"Do not underestimate him."

The younger man lowered his head.

"Understood."

Back at St. Gabriel Children's Home...

Father Michael slowly closed the damaged register.

He looked at Benedict with quiet determination.

"There is one person left."

Benedict raised his eyes.

"Who?"

The old priest answered carefully.

The doctor was responsible for checking the health of each child brought to the orphanage.

"He retired many years ago."

"But if anyone remembers where Little Ben came from..."

"It's him."

Benedict felt hope rise for the first time in years.

"Where can I find him?"

Father Michael opened an old address book.

He paused for a moment, then jotted down a name and address on a tiny scrap of paper.

He handed it to Benedict.

Dr. Samuel Whitmore.

Willow Creek Retirement Village.

Father Michael looked him straight in the eyes.

"If anyone can help you uncover the truth..."

That's the one who was there when you first got here, the man who picked you up and held you.

Benedict took the paper, folded it up neatly, and tucked it away in his wallet, making sure it was safe and secure.

As he made his way to the entrance of the orphanage, he turned around to take one last look.

The old halls.

The faded photographs.

The empty playground.

This place had given him his first home.

Even if he could no longer remember it.

Outside...

The air was filled with the sweet smell of roses, carried by the gentle breeze.

And somewhere in the darkness...

A pair of unseen eyes continued watching him.

The hunt for the truth had only just begun.