The boy noticed him immediately and recoiled, instincts sharpened by years of surviving adults who approached with either cruelty or false kindness, his fingers clutching the plastic bag tighter as his body tensed, ready to run, and Julian dropped into a crouch several feet away, forcing his voice to remain steady despite the tremor in his hands, because fear recognized fear, and the last thing he wanted was to frighten the child further.
“That necklace,” Julian said quietly, nodding toward the star, “where did you get it?”
The boy’s eyes flicked downward for half a second before snapping back up, sharp and defensive. “I didn’t steal it,” he said hoarsely, the words practiced, as though he’d had to defend himself against that accusation more than once. “It’s mine.”
Julian swallowed hard, every instinct screaming at him to grab the necklace, to demand answers, to shout, but he restrained himself, knowing that children who had learned to survive the streets smelled desperation like blood in water. “I’m not saying you stole it,” he replied carefully, “it just looks exactly like one I gave someone very important to me.”
The boy’s grip tightened around the bag. “I’ve always had it,” he insisted. “As long as I can remember.”
Those words struck Julian with a force that made his vision blur, because the boy’s age matched the timeline almost perfectly, and when Julian really looked at him, past the dirt and bruises and malnutrition, he saw eyes the same unsettling shade of gray-green as Liora’s, eyes that had once stared back at him from across the breakfast table, full of curiosity and unearned trust.
