Young billionaire buys homeless twins sold by stepmother then learns they are his lost daughters…

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A Second Chance at Family

Grant Witmore hated noise. The constant clamor of the big city pursued him like a waking nightmare—impatient horns, loud cell phone conversations, music leaking from other people’s headphones. At 30, he had already built his life around silence. His apartment was on the top floor of an old building with double windows and thick curtains that blocked both sound and light. His job as a contract proofreader for a law firm allowed him to work from home most of the time.

On a rainy Wednesday in October, however, Grant had to go out. An important client demanded his physical presence to sign some documents. Now, with a leather briefcase under his arm, he cut through downtown, eager to return to his sanctuary of quiet. “It’s faster this way,” he muttered to himself, turning into a narrow alley he knew well. This shortcut would save him ten minutes on the main avenue—ten minutes of noisy chaos he preferred to avoid at all costs.

The alley looked different. Normally empty, except for a few boxes and trash cans, it now held a scene that made Grant slow his steps instinctively. In the middle of the way, a woman in a faded red coat was gesturing at a man in a suit. Next to her, two small figures stood as still as statues. Grant almost turned back—almost—but something about those two small silhouettes stopped him. They were children, two girls, so alike that they could only be sisters, maybe twins. They wore clothes that were far too large, dirty, and torn. Their dark hair was tangled, and even from a distance, Grant noticed the emptiness in their eyes—eyes that had seen more than any child ever should.

“500 for both, sir. It’s a fair price,” the woman’s voice was harsh, like sandpaper. “You won’t find a better deal anywhere.” The man in the suit shook his head and hurried away, passing Grant without meeting his gaze. The woman cursed and pulled the girls closer. Grant stood frozen. The scene before him was so surreal, so horrible that his brain took a moment to process it—a woman selling children in broad daylight. It couldn’t be real. The light rain trickled down his face, but he barely noticed. His eyes were fixed on the girls, on their hunched shoulders, on their vacant expressions.

Without realizing it, Grant started to move toward them. The woman noticed him and immediately forced a smile, revealing yellowed teeth. “Hello, sir. Interested in my girls? 500 for both. They’re good girls. Quiet. They don’t cause any trouble.” Grant felt a wave of nausea and anger rise in his throat. “You should be ashamed,” he said, his voice louder than he intended. “Ashamed of selling children like merchandise.”

The woman, who must have been in her early 40s but looked much older, narrowed her eyes. “If you’re not interested, move on. I don’t need a lecture.” Grant looked again at the girls. They were trembling, though he couldn’t tell if it was from cold or fear. The smaller one, the one without a birthmark near her eye, was partially hiding behind her sister. Both stared fixedly at the ground, as if they had learned that meeting an adult’s gaze could bring trouble.

In that moment, something inside Grant, something that had lain dormant for years, woke up. Without hesitation, he pulled out his wallet and took out several bills. “Here are the 500,” he said, extending the money. “They’re coming with me now.” The woman grabbed the money quickly, counting it with nimble fingers. Satisfied, she stepped back. “They’re yours now. No refunds.”

Grant crouched down to the girls’ level. “Come with me,” he said, softening his voice. “You deserve better than staying with her.” The children looked at him with distrust, then at the woman as if asking for permission. “Go,” the woman said curtly. “He paid for you.” Grant resisted the impulse to say anything else to the woman. Instead, he extended his hands to the girls. “It’s okay. I won’t hurt you.” They didn’t take his hands back, but when he began to walk, they followed him like little ghosts. The woman had already disappeared at the other end of the alley, counting the money.

“What are your names?” Grant asked once they were a safe distance away. The girl with the birthmark looked up briefly. “I’m Nora,” she said in a voice so soft he had to lean in to hear. “This is my sister, Hazel.” “I’m taking you to my home,” Grant explained. “It’s dry and warm there, and there’s food.” At the mention of food, he noticed a spark in their eyes. He took off his coat and placed it over their shoulders, covering them both like an improvised umbrella.

The entire way back to his apartment, Grant wondered what on earth he was doing. He had spent his whole life building a fortress of solitude and silence after losing everything he loved. And now he was bringing two children home. It was madness. He knew nothing about kids. He knew nothing about being responsible for another human being. But looking at those small, frightened faces, something in him, something he had buried along with his hopes years ago, resurfaced—a protective instinct he hadn’t realized still existed.

When they arrived at his building, the doorman gave a curious look at the two small and wet figures following Grant but asked no questions. In the elevator, the girls pressed themselves against the opposite wall, as if wanting to keep as much distance from him as possible. “I live on the top floor,” Grant said, trying to break the ice. “It’s a quiet place. You’ll like it.” No response, just two pairs of dark eyes watching his every move wearily.

When he finally opened the door to his apartment, he felt a strange embarrassment. The place was immaculately clean and organized, just the way he liked it, but it was obvious it wasn’t a home for children. There were no bright colors, no toys, no sign of any life beyond his own. The walls were white, the furniture dark and minimalistic. The only personal touch was a bookshelf carefully arranged by subject and size. “Come in,” he said, holding the door. “Let’s get dry and eat something.” The girls entered slowly, looking around as if expecting a trap. Their bare, dirty feet left marks on the wooden floor. But for the first time in years, Grant didn’t care about the mess.

“The bathroom’s over there,” he pointed. “I’ll get towels.” And he paused, realizing they would need dry clothes. “Wait here.” In his bedroom, Grant frantically searched for anything that might fit. He found two clean t-shirts that would look like dresses on them. He also grabbed two unopened packs of socks, purchased and never used. It was the best he could offer at that moment.

When he returned to the living room, he found the girls exactly where he’d left them, standing there soaked, making little puddles on the wooden floor. They seemed afraid to move without permission. “Here,” he said, handing them the towels and clothes. “You can dry off and change in the bathroom. Then we’ll eat.” They took the items but didn’t move. “Together,” Hazel said, speaking for the first time. Her voice was even softer than her sister’s, almost a whisper. “Can we go together?”

“Of course,” Grant answered, realizing they were afraid to be separated. “Of course you can. The bathroom is right there. Be careful. The water might be too hot. Let me know if you need help.” While the girls were in the bathroom, Grant went to the kitchen and opened the fridge, staring at its limited contents. What do children eat? He had eggs, bread, some cheese, milk. He decided to make grilled cheese sandwiches—simple but comforting—and to warm some milk.

He heard the bathroom door open and light footsteps in the living room. “Come here,” he called from the kitchen. “The food is almost ready.” The girls appeared in the doorway, transformed without the grime and in dry clothes. They looked different. Grant’s t-shirts came down to their knees, and the socks, folded multiple times, were still too big for their small feet. They had combed their damp hair, long and dark, though it was still tangled in some places.

“Sit down,” Grant said, gesturing toward the table. “Please.” They complied, climbing onto the chairs with some difficulty. Grant noticed how small and thin they were. Nora, the one who spoke first, seemed to be the older twin by a few minutes, taking on a subtle leadership role that many older twins carry. Grant placed the warm sandwiches on plates along with cups of warm milk and sat on the opposite side of the table. “Go ahead and eat.” He didn’t have to repeat himself. The girls devoured the food as though they hadn’t seen a decent meal in days or weeks. They ate so fast they nearly choked, as if afraid someone might take the sandwiches away at any moment.

“There’s more,” Grant said gently. “You can eat slowly. No one will take your food away.” They ignored him, finishing in record time. When they were done, they looked at him expectantly, like pets waiting for more. “Do you want more?” he asked. Two vigorous nods. Grant made more sandwiches, and once again, the girls devoured everything. After the third sandwich each, they finally seemed satisfied. Nora even leaned back in her chair, her eyes half-closed in contentment. “Thank you,” she murmured, surprising Grant.

“You’re welcome,” he replied, feeling strangely moved by that simple word of gratitude. Night was falling, and Grant realized he needed to figure out where the girls would sleep. His apartment had two bedrooms, but the second one served as an office and was full of papers and books. “You can sleep in my bed,” he offered. “I’ll take the sofa.” Hazel looked at her sister, who shook her head. “Can we stay here?” Nora asked, pointing to the plush rug in the living room.

Together, Grant frowned. “On the rug? But it’s not comfortable. The bed is big enough for both of you.” “We’re used to the floor,” Hazel said, lowering her eyes. “In our stepmother’s house, we slept in the basement.” “And Cheryl never let us use the bed,” Nora added. “She said it was only for important people.” Those simple statements squeezed Grant’s heart in a way he hadn’t felt in years. A mixture of anger and compassion filled his chest, a feeling so intense it caught him off guard.

“I understand,” he finally said, swallowing the lump in his throat. “But it’s different here. You deserve a bed. You deserve comfort.” The girls didn’t respond, but their weary looks said it all. They didn’t believe him. Not yet. “That’s all right,” Grant agreed. “You can stay on the rug tonight if you want. I’ll get some blankets.” He improvised a bed on the rug with duvets and extra cushions. The girls lay down together, curled against each other like puppies, seeking warmth. Grant covered them carefully and moved away, sitting on the sofa. “Good night,” he said. “If you need anything, just call. I’ll be right here.”

“Good night,” Nora replied while Hazel just watched him with large dark eyes. Within minutes, the girls were asleep. Exhaustion, stress, and finally the sense of safety had overcome them. Grant stayed there watching them, their steady breathing, their small bodies finally relaxed. They looked even smaller in sleep, defenseless and vulnerable. What had he just done? He had literally bought two children in an alley. It was illegal, immoral, and completely out of character for his methodical, cautious nature. He should call the police, the authorities, social services—someone who knew what to do with two orphans. But seeing those kids sleep so peacefully, maybe for the first time in a long time, something stopped him from picking up the phone.

He remembered his own loss, how his life had been shattered years ago. He remembered the pain, the loneliness, the void he had tried to fill with silence and order. “Tomorrow,” he whispered to himself. “Tomorrow, I’ll decide what to do.” Grant fell asleep right there on the sofa, never taking his eyes off the girls. His last thought before drifting off was that for the first time in years, his apartment didn’t feel so silent or so empty.

He woke to the sound of soft footsteps. Opening his eyes, he saw Nora and Hazel standing before him, still wearing his oversized t-shirts, watching him with cautious curiosity. “Good morning,” he said, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. “Good morning,” they replied in unison, their voices still small but slightly more confident than the day before. “Did you sleep well?” They glanced at each other and then nodded. “Are you hungry?” Another nod. In the kitchen, Grant prepared what he had—scrambled eggs, toast, and some orange juice he found in the back of the fridge. Once again, the girls ate as if every meal might be their last, although this time a bit slower, allowing themselves to savor the food.

“This is good,” Hazel said, pointing to the eggs. “I’ve never had them like this.” “They’re just scrambled eggs,” Grant said, surprised. “Dad used to make eggs sometimes,” Nora explained. “But after he died, our stepmother just gave us scraps.” After breakfast, still sitting at the table, Grant finally asked the question that had been on his mind. “Where did you come from? What happened to you?” The girls exchanged glances, the silent communication only very close siblings can have.

“We lived with our dad,” Nora began at last. “He was good to us. He worked a lot, but he always brought food.” “He told us stories,” Hazel added, a rare smile lighting her face for a moment. “Stories about princesses and dragons.” “But he got sick,” Nora continued, the smile disappearing. “Really sick. He couldn’t work anymore. Then he died.” “I’m sorry,” said Grant sincerely. “What about your mom?” “We never met her,” Hazel said. “Dad said she left when we were babies.” “After Dad died,” Nora took over again, playing the role of spokesperson. “We stayed with our stepmother. She didn’t like us. Never did.” “She said we were a burden, Hazel added, looking at her empty plate. “That we cost money and were good for nothing. She used to hit us when Dad wasn’t looking,” Nora said, her voice trembling slightly. “After he died, it got worse. Much worse. She locked us in the basement,” Hazel said. “For whole days, sometimes with no food. Then she sold us to Cheryl,” Nora concluded. “Said it was to pay what we owed her.”

Grant felt a lump in his throat. “Cheryl, is that the woman in the alley?” Nora nodded. “She said she’d give us a new family, but…” her voice trailed off. “But she just treated us badly,” Hazel completed. “Said we’d have to pay her back for what we cost her.” Grant closed his eyes for a moment, trying to control the anger he felt. When he opened them, he saw that the girls were watching him apprehensively, as if worried he too could turn mean at any moment. “You’re safe now,” he said, surprised by the conviction in his own voice. “Nobody is going to hurt you here. I promise.”

The girls said nothing, but something in their eyes changed subtly. It wasn’t trust yet; it was too soon for that. But maybe it was hope—a small, fragile hope that Grant silently vowed not to destroy. “I’ll take care of you,” he heard himself say, the words coming out before he could think them through. And for the first time in a long time, since he had lost everything he loved, he felt the warmth of another presence by his side. He was no longer alone in that apartment that had once been too silent.

Grant looked out the window. The day was clear. The previous night’s rain had given way to a shy autumn sun. There was much to do—buy clothes, see a doctor, handle legal matters. But for now, what mattered was that those two children were safe. And in some strange way he couldn’t fully understand yet, they had brought something back into his life—something he thought he’d lost forever.

Grant woke early the next morning. He hadn’t slept well, thinking about what he needed to do next. Buying clothes for the girls was urgent, but something even more important worried him—their health. During their bath, he had noticed how their ribs were visible under pale skin. The dark circles under their eyes and their constant fatigue weren’t normal for children their age.

After a quick internet search, he found a pediatric clinic that accepted walk-in patients. He got dressed and went to the living room where Nora and Hazel were still asleep, curled up under blankets. “Girls,” he called softly, crouching beside them. “We have to go out today.” Nora opened her eyes immediately, as if always on alert, even in sleep. Hazel took a few seconds longer, blinking groggy. “Where are we going?” Nora asked, her voice still laced with distrust.

“To see a doctor,” Grant replied. “A children’s doctor.” Panic filled their eyes instantly. Hazel clung to her sister’s hand. “We’re not sick,” Nora said quickly. “We’re fine.” Grant realized his mistake. For children who likely associated strangers with bad experiences, the idea of a doctor could be terrifying. “It’s not because you’re sick,” he explained patiently. “It’s just a checkup to make sure everything’s okay. All kids do that. The doctor is gentle, I promise.” The girls didn’t look convinced, but they stopped protesting.

While they ate breakfast—more eggs and toast, which seemed to have become their favorite—Grant tried to make the idea less scary. “After the doctor, we can buy you some new clothes and maybe a few toys. How does that sound?” That got their attention. Hazel even managed a small smile. “Toys like the ones in stores?” she asked. “Exactly like the ones in stores,” Grant confirmed.

After breakfast, he used his credit card to call a cab. He still didn’t want to expose them to public transportation and headed to the clinic. In the car, the girls sat pressed together, watching out the window with barely disguised fascination. Grant realized they probably didn’t ride in cars often.

The pediatric clinic was a low, colorful building with pictures of animals on the walls. At reception, a middle-aged woman smiled at them as they entered. “Good morning. How can I help you?” Grant hesitated. How could he explain the situation without raising suspicions? No documents, no medical history, no verified relationship with the girls. He took a deep breath. “Good morning. I need these girls to be examined by a pediatrician. It’s complicated. They’re temporarily under my care, and I need a health assessment.”

The receptionist looked at the girls in their makeshift dresses, Grant’s oversized t-shirts, and still tangled hair, her gaze softening. “I see. I’ll need some basic information, but we can handle that. Dr. Miller is on duty today, and he’s great with kids.” What are their names? “Nora and Hazel,” Grant answered. “Nora and Hazel.” His mind worked quickly; giving his last name was premature, but he needed something. “Sullivan.” “Nora and Hazel Sullivan.” While the receptionist filled out the forms, Grant knelt to speak quietly with the girls. “Don’t be scared. The doctor just wants to see if you’re growing well. Like a checkup, you know.”

Nora nodded seriously while Hazel half hid behind her sister. Twenty minutes later, they were called into the exam room. Dr. Miller was a man in his 50s with graying hair and round glasses. His kind smile seemed genuine. “Hello, Nora and Hazel,” he greeted, lowering himself to their eye level. “I’m Dr. Miller. I’m very happy to meet you.” The girls didn’t answer, but they didn’t recoil when he invited them to sit on the colorful chairs in the corner of the room. Grant stood watching closely. “Do you know what a pediatrician does?” the doctor asked, holding up his stethoscope.

When they shook their heads, he continued. “I’m a special kind of doctor who only takes care of kids. I help you grow strong and healthy. May I listen to your hearts? It’s like a game.” To Grant’s surprise, the girls let the doctor examine them without protest. Dr. Miller was patient and gentle, explaining each step before touching them, asking permission with a respect that clearly surprised them. After measuring, weighing, and thoroughly examining both, he made some notes on his tablet. Then he turned to Grant. “Mr. Witmore, may I speak with you for a minute?”

“Girls, you can wait over there. We have some games and books on that table.” The girls looked at Grant, who nodded encouragingly. Reluctantly, they went to the indicated table but kept their eyes on him. Dr. Miller lowered his voice. “Mr. Witmore, these children show clear signs of chronic malnutrition. Their skin is dry. Their weight is well below what’s expected for their age, and there are obvious vitamin deficiencies. Blood work will confirm, but I can see it in their eyes, nails, and overall pallor.”

Grant’s heart tightened. “Is it serious?” “It’s reversible,” the doctor replied. “But it will take time. They’re not in immediate danger, but they need consistent care. I also noticed some old bruises, especially on their backs and arms. Some looked like they might have been caused by,” he hesitated, “by adult hands.” Grant swallowed hard. “They came from a difficult situation. I’m trying to give them a better home.” The doctor studied him for a moment, then nodded. “I can see that. And they seem to trust you, which is good. Kids who’ve been through trauma develop a sixth sense about trustworthy people.”

“What do I do?” Grant asked, feeling completely lost. Dr. Miller smiled kindly. “Three main things. First, a reinforced, balanced diet. I’ll give you a list of nutrient-rich foods they need: proteins, vitamins, or essential minerals. Second, establish a routine. Children who experienced instability desperately need predictability. Set times for waking up, eating, sleeping. This brings them security.” Grant nodded, mentally taking notes. “And third, perhaps most importantly, emotional stability. They need to know you won’t vanish, that you won’t reject them, that you won’t hurt them, that the home you provide is permanent.”

“It is permanent,” Grant said, surprising himself with the certainty in his voice. The doctor smiled. “In that case, we’re off to a good start.” Hail prescribed some vitamin supplements to speed their recovery and scheduled a return in a month. While Dr. Miller wrote out the prescriptions, Grant looked at the girls. They pretended to look at a picture book, but their eyes flicked to him constantly, as if afraid he might disappear any second.

One last thing, the doctor said, handing over the papers. “You mentioned they’re temporarily under your care? Is there any legal process underway?” Grant hesitated. “Not yet. I found them yesterday.” The doctor raised his eyebrows but kept a neutral expression. “I understand. Well, I suggest you regularize this situation as soon as possible. For their sake and yours, I know an excellent social worker who can help with that without asking too many questions.”

Grant took the doctor’s card gratefully. “Thank you, Dr. Miller. Really.” “That’s what we’re here for,” he replied with a smile. Then he turned to the girls. “Nora, Hazel, we’re done for today. You were very brave patients.” Leaving the clinic with prescriptions in his pocket and a list of nutritional recommendations on his phone, Grant felt strangely energized. He had a purpose now, something missing in his life for years.

“Who wants to buy new clothes?” he asked the girls, who still seemed a bit stunned by the medical experience. Their eyes lit up. The rest of the day was a roller coaster of firsts. For Grant, his first time buying children’s clothing, trying to guess sizes and preferences. For the girls, the first time choosing their own clothes, trying on shoes that weren’t hand-me-downs or leftovers. “Can I really pick anyone?” Hazel asked, looking in wonder at a row of colorful dresses. “Anyone you like?” Grant confirmed.

They chose reverently. Nora preferred darker shades and practical items. Hazel was drawn to bright colors and sparkly details. Grant let them pick whatever they wanted, adding essentials himself: underwear, pajamas, coats. In the toy section, the same awe struck them. They walked slowly down the aisles, touching everything with hesitant fingers, as if they couldn’t believe what they were seeing. “Can we really take one?” Nora asked, holding a doll with the same care one might have for a relic. “You can take a few,” Grant replied. “Choose whatever you like.”

Nora chose the doll and a small doctor kit, perhaps inspired by the recent visit. Hazel grabbed a big teddy bear she could hug and a simple board game. Grant added books, building blocks, and more games they could play together. At the pharmacy, he bought the recommended supplements and took the opportunity to get children’s hygiene products. At the grocery store, he filled the cart with items from Dr. Miller’s list: fresh fruits, vegetables, lean proteins, whole grains.

By the time they finally got home, they were all exhausted. “Let’s put everything away and then rest a bit,” Grant suggested, opening the door to his apartment. The girls stepped in carrying their lighter bags, refusing to let go of their new treasures. Grant followed with the rest of the purchases. Inside, he helped them organize their clothes in the drawers of the room he had hastily prepared for them—his old office, now cleared of piles of papers and boxes. “This is your room now,” he said, watching Nora and Hazel gaze in amazement at the two small beds that had been delivered while they were out. An emergency online purchase he’d made the night before. “Tomorrow we can decorate it more if you like.”

“It’s ours?” Hazel asked incredulously. “Just ours?” “All yours,” Grant confirmed. “Always.” In the kitchen, Grant put away groceries and prepared a nutritious lunch following the doctor’s guidelines: grilled chicken, brown rice, and steamed vegetables. To his surprise, the girls ate it all, even the veggies children often reject. “Is it good?” he asked, watching how methodically they chewed. “Very good,” Nora answered. “Better than any food we’ve had before.”

After lunch, while the girls explored their new toys in the living room, Grant sat at the kitchen table with a notepad. Following the doctor’s advice about routine, he started drafting a schedule: 7 a.m. wake-up, bath, brush teeth; 8:00 a.m., breakfast; 9:00 a.m., educational activities; 12:00 p.m., lunch. He stopped, realizing he didn’t know what kind of routine would suit them best. They’d need school soon, but first he needed to gauge their educational level, and he needed to handle legal matters—guardianship, documents, registrations.

Grant. Hazel’s small voice pulled him from his thoughts. She stood in the kitchen doorway, holding something in her hands. “Yes, Hazel?” “I found this in my new things.” She showed him a small pink hair bow that came as a bonus with one of the dolls. “Can I—can I put it on you?” Grant blinked in confusion. “On me?” Hazel nodded shyly. “So you don’t look so sad anymore. Your hair falls in your face when you think a lot.” Grant felt something warm expand in his chest. Wordlessly, he crouched to her height. “Sure you can.”

With clumsy but determined fingers, Hazel pinned a small lock of Grant’s hair with the pink bow. When she finished, she stepped back to admire her work and smiled—the first open, genuine smile he’d seen on her face. “Now you look nice,” she declared. “Norah appeared behind her sister, holding her new teddy bear. Seeing Grant with the bow, she let out a surprised giggle. “You look like a dad now,” she said with a sincerity that pierced Grant’s heart. “A dad?”

The word echoed inside him, stirring memories of what might have been, of what he had lost before ever having it. But now, looking at these two girls who had somehow found their way into his lonely life, Grant felt he might be getting a second chance. “Who wants banana pancakes for dinner?” he asked, standing up with the pink bow still in his hair. “I do,” they both shouted in unison. Another first—the first time he’d heard them raise their voices in excitement instead of fear.

In the kitchen, Grant set out bananas, eggs, and flour on the counter. “We’ll do it together. You can help mix.” As he showed the girls how to prepare the batter, he watched their faces light up. Their cheeks, still thin, now showed a faint rosy hue that hadn’t been there the day before. Their eyes shone with something other than fear. That night, after a dinner of banana pancakes and honey—soon to become the first of many rituals—Grant improvised a table in the living room and opened one of the board games they’d bought.

The rules were simple, perfect for beginners. “Whoever rolls the higher number goes first,” he explained, showing them how to throw the dice. Hazel rolled a five and celebrated as if she’d won a prize. Nora concentrated intently on each turn, her tongue poking out at the corner of her mouth when she thought hard. Grant let them win a few rounds but soon realized he didn’t need to. They learned quickly.

Between giggles and small celebrations, Grant watched the transformation of his apartment. What had once been a silent, sterile space now buzzed with life. The girls’ voices, their light footsteps in the hallway, the colorful toys scattered on the floor—all created something his apartment had never been before: a home. Later, when he finally tucked the girls in for the night—in real beds this time, not on the living room rug—Grant lingered, watching them for a moment. Hazel was already sound asleep, hugging her new teddy bear. Nora resisted sleep a bit more, her watchful eyes following him.

“Are we going to stay here forever?” she asked, her small voice in the darkness of the room. Grant sat on the edge of her bed. “If you want to, yes, this is your home now.” “I want to,” Nora said, her eyes finally closing. “It’s nice here.” “It’s nice having you here,” Grant replied, pulling the blanket up over her. When he left the room, leaving the door slightly ajar as they’d requested, Grant touched the small pink bow still in his hair. He decided to leave it there, at least for now.

The next day, he would start implementing everything the doctor had recommended: routine, nutrition, stability. The girls deserved that and much more. And he was determined to give them what they’d been denied. And he realized with surprise what he himself had been missing for all those lonely years—a family.

Sunday dawned with a persistent rain tapping on the apartment windows. Grant was seated in the kitchen, watching Nora and Hazel play with the puzzles they’d bought the day before. Two weeks had passed since he’d brought them home, and the changes were visible. Their cheeks were fuller, their eyes brighter, and their initial weariness was gradually giving way to a cautious kind of joy. Banana pancakes had become a morning ritual, as had board games at night.

Grant was surprised by how easily he’d adopted these new habits, as if a dormant part of himself had finally awakened. While sipping his coffee, he thought about the hallway closet. There was a reason he always kept it closed, why he never opened that door, even for storage. Inside was a single box he hadn’t touched in years. Maybe it was the rain, which always made him melancholy. Or maybe it was the way Hazel had smiled when she woke up—a smile that for a fleeting moment reminded him of someone else. Whatever it was, that morning Grant felt ready to open the door he’d kept locked, not only in his apartment but in his heart.

“I’ll be in the hallway if you need me,” he told the girls, who nodded absently, focused on fitting puzzle pieces. The hallway was dim, lit only by the light coming from the living room. Grant paused in front of the closet door, his heart pounding. He took a deep breath and turned the knob. The closet was small and almost empty, except for a single cardboard box in the corner. It was dusty, showing how long it had been since he last touched it. Carefully, Grant lifted it and carried it to his bedroom, closing the door behind him. He sat on the bed, the box on his lap. His hands trembled slightly as he removed the lid. The smell of old things, paper, stored fabric, memories hit him in a wave.

On top of the pile lay a large envelope. Grant opened it and pulled out photographs, spreading them across the bedspread. Monroe smiled in all of them, eyes shining, one hand always on her round belly. In one photo, she wore a floral dress and stood under a tree in the park. In another, they were together, Grant’s arm around her, both gazing at the bump that held their daughters. “Monroe,” he whispered, running his fingers over the image of his wife’s face. She had entered his life like a hurricane, full of life, plans, and dreams. Within a year, they were married. In less than two, she was pregnant with twins. They discovered at the first ultrasound; Monroe had cried tears of joy.

Grant picked up the black and white ultrasound images. They were dated 3 and 4 months. In the last ones, you could clearly see two tiny profiles, two little heads, four tiny hands. “Our daughters,” he murmured, feeling his throat tighten. “Under the ultrasounds, he found the small notebook in which Monroe had recorded everything about the pregnancy. Her words were always optimistic, even on days of nausea and discomfort. There were name lists, plans for the baby’s room, dreams for the future, and at the bottom of the box lay the most painful items to look at—two tiny hospital ID bracelets never used.

Grant held them, feeling their negligible weight yet feeling crushed by it. Memories of that day, that terrible day, rushed back with full force—Monroe going into premature labor, the fear in her eyes as they wheeled her into the emergency room. Grant expelled from the room by doctors when things went wrong. Hours of agonizing waiting in the cold hospital corridor. Then his mother, Diana, her face pale, her voice contained, telling him that Monroe hadn’t survived the hemorrhage and that the babies, too fragile, hadn’t made it either. All in a matter of hours, his entire family gone before he could say goodbye. Grant hadn’t even seen the bodies. Diana had arranged everything—the funeral, the paperwork, the death certificates. At the time, Grant was grateful, unable to function through the paralyzing grief. Later, when the fog of mourning began to lift, he realized he had no tangible memories to hold on to, except for the items in this box.

A tear fell onto the photo in his hand. Grant hadn’t realized he was crying. He wiped his face, breathing shakily. Five years had passed, but the pain felt raw, as if it had happened yesterday. On the other side of the door, he heard laughter. Nora and Hazel had probably finished their puzzle. That sound, so out of place in his apartment until two weeks ago, anchored him to the present. Grant began to put everything back in the box carefully—the photos, the ultrasounds, the notebook, last of all, the tiny hospital bracelets, which he slipped back into their envelope. He replaced the lid on the box and held it to his chest for a moment. “I miss you,” he whispered as if Monroe could hear him. “Every single day.”

He wiped his face once more and took a deep breath. Then he returned the box to the closet, shutting the door firmly. When he turned around, he saw Hazel standing at the end of the hallway, watching him curiously. “We finished the puzzle,” she said, smiling timidly. “Yes,” he replied, feeling a rush of emotions. “Let’s see it.” As he followed the little girl back to the living room, where Nora proudly displayed the completed puzzle, Grant felt a strange confluence of past and present—the pain for what he’d lost, and the gratitude for what he had unexpectedly found.

“Look, Grant,” Nora exclaimed, pointing to the bright castle picture. “We did it all by ourselves.” “It’s beautiful,” he said, genuinely impressed. “You’re very smart.” He sat on the floor with them, letting the girls’ presence chase away the shadows the box of memories had brought forth. It still hurt to think of the daughters he never knew, of the wife he lost so early. But somehow, Nora and Hazel were filling voids he hadn’t realized remained.

As he helped dismantle the puzzle to start again, Grant had no idea that the pieces of another, far more complex puzzle were beginning to align around him—a puzzle that, once complete, would change everything he believed

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