The boy approached the bed slowly. He remained several feet away and turned the handle of the music box.
A delicate melody filled the room.
It was not beautiful in the usual way. Several notes were slightly distorted by the damaged mechanism. One repeated too soon. Another trembled.
Yet the melody carried a strange warmth.
The boy closed his eyes.
“What is your name?” Gideon asked.
“Owen Parker.”
“Owen, what do you think you hear?”
The boy did not answer immediately.
The music box continued playing.
Then Owen pointed toward the base of the bed.
“The machines are covering it.”
Dr. Cole frowned.
“The machines are off.”
“Not that machine.”
He indicated an infusion controller mounted behind the bed. Its display had gone dark, but a faint mechanical vibration continued inside it.
A nurse disconnected the controller.
The room became even quieter.
Owen tilted his head.
“There.”
“There what?” Dr. Cole asked.
“A beat.”
The doctor checked Miles again.
No pulse.
No breath.
Nothing.
Owen began humming with the music box.
The sound was low and uncertain at first. Then his voice found the melody. The damaged notes seemed to straighten when he sang them.
His hands began to shake.
Gideon took a step toward him.
“Owen?”
“Don’t speak.”
The boy’s voice was barely audible.
“Please. He’s trying to follow it.”
A faint tone came from the monitor.
One of the nurses looked at the screen.
A single point appeared on the motionless line.
Then vanished.
Dr. Cole rushed forward.
“Restart the leads.”
The team moved instantly.
The monitor produced another tone.
A second point.
Then a third.
Miles’s left hand tightened slightly beneath the blanket.
Gideon gripped the bed rail.
“Doctor?”
“I don’t know.”
The line rose.
Fell.
Paused.
Then rose again.
Miles drew a thin, uneven breath.
The room exploded into motion.
Dr. Cole called for oxygen. A nurse adjusted the airway. Another physician checked the baby’s pulse while the monitor struggled toward a fragile rhythm.
“He has cardiac activity.”
Gideon stared at her.
“What?”
“We have a pulse.”
Miles breathed again.
The sound was weak and rough, but unmistakable.
Gideon covered his mouth.
Someone behind him began crying.
Owen stopped humming.
The music box slipped from his fingers and landed on the carpet.
His knees buckled.
Paul caught him before he fell.
The boy remained conscious, but his face had lost all color.
“I’m fine,” he whispered.
“You are not fine,” Dr. Cole said.
She motioned toward a nurse.
Owen tried to stand.
“My grandfather is waiting for me.”
“You need to be examined.”
“He worries when I’m late.”
Gideon picked up the silver card case.
It had opened when Owen dropped it.
A photograph lay on the floor.
Gideon bent down and reached for it.
The photograph did not belong to him.
It must have been tucked behind the card case when Owen found it.
A young woman stood in front of an old ferry terminal, smiling into the wind. She had dark curls, a narrow face and a brass music box in her hands.
Gideon stopped breathing.
He knew that face.
He had spent nearly fifteen years trying to forget it.
“Clara,” he said.
Owen looked up from Paul’s arms.
“What did you call her?”
Gideon turned the photograph over. Someone had written a name and date on the back.
Clara Parker.
Owen pushed himself upright.
“That’s my mother.”
The room seemed to contract around Gideon.
“You’re Clara’s son?”
“She died when I was little.”
Gideon stared at the boy.
Clara’s gray eyes looked back at him.
The same eyes.
The same stubbornness.
The same instinct to stand between danger and someone weaker.
Behind them, Miles released a small cry.
It should have been the only sound that mattered.
Instead, Evelyn whispered, “That is impossible.”
Owen heard her.
“Why?”
Evelyn recovered quickly.
“I meant what happened to the baby.”
“No,” Owen said. “You meant me.”
Gideon looked at his wife.
“How did you know Clara?”
“I didn’t.”
“You recognized the photograph.”
“I was surprised.”
“You were frightened.”
Evelyn’s eyes shifted toward the medical staff.
“This is not the time.”
A voice called from the corridor.
“Owen!”
An elderly man hurried into the suite, leaning heavily on a wooden cane. His coat was soaked, and each breath caused a painful wheeze.
Owen’s face filled with relief.
“Grandpa.”
Samuel Parker crossed the room and pulled the boy against him.
“I told you to wait downstairs.”
“I found the man’s card case.”
“I don’t care about the card case.”
Samuel checked Owen’s face and hands.
“Did you use the song?”
Owen did not answer.
Samuel saw the music box on the floor.
His expression collapsed.
“Oh, Owen.”
“The baby was still there.”