The wind was sharp that morning, skimming across the sidewalks outside the Children’s Medical Center in Birmingham. The building loomed tall and solemn, wrapped in that quiet kind of hope hospitals always seem to wear. Inside, machines hummed and families waited with breath held tight.
But outside, on a worn bench near the entrance, sat a boy who didn’t belong to any patient list or appointment log.
He was small—maybe nine, at most—and bundled in an old coat two sizes too big, with duct tape holding the soles of his boots together. A red knit hat covered most of his face, and a weathered notebook rested on his lap. He scribbled in it with care, pausing only to glance at the people walking by.
No one paid much attention to him anymore. The nurses, the orderlies, even the security guards—he was just part of the background now. A quiet figure who showed up every morning, sat in the same spot, and left at sunset.
But he watched. Always.
That morning, a sleek gray SUV pulled up to the curb. The man behind the wheel wore a tailored coat and an expression carved from sleepless nights. His name was Marcus Holloway—CEO of a major tech firm, known for making bold moves in business and keeping his personal life intensely private.
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