He was barefoot by a black car, sobbing and sunburned, gripping the door like it might magically open. No parents. No one looking for him.

I knelt down. “Where are your mom or dad?”

He cried harder. “I wanna go back in the movie.”

I carried him to the nearby theater. “Who were you with?”

“My other dad,” he said softly. “The one who doesn’t talk with his mouth.”

That stopped me.

Security checked the footage. No one dropped him off. One frame—empty lot. The next—he’s there. His shadow, though, was holding a hand.

He said his name was Eli. Didn’t know his address. Police took him to the hospital.

At 2 a.m., he appeared at my window—same yellow shirt, damp hair, toy car in hand.

“I don’t like the hospital,” he whispered. “They won’t let me talk to my dad.”

“The quiet one?” I asked. He nodded.

He kept showing up—once to stack books, once to draw a picture: him, me, and a faceless figure with long arms. Then he vanished. Left the toy behind.

Months later, another child came—barefoot, holding a key. “My mirror daddy left me here,” she said. She pointed to Eli’s drawing. “He hums like a fridge.”

Now I keep a room ready. Some kids don’t go missing—they’re brought. And maybe we’re just here to hold them for a while… until they can leave again.