Page 4

CHAPTER FOUR

Connection Lost. Chat Session Ended.

T he hum of the backup generator kicked on with a growl.

That was followed by the soft flick-flick-flick of the overhead lights struggling to reassert themselves.

Paul blinked and then shielded his eyes as the dim office came back to life in fluorescent hues, like someone had lit a hundred electric candles around the room.

With everything else coming back online, maybe he could get her back, too. He tapped the keyboard. The computer took a while to reboot. He tapped again, but it didn't go any faster. Finally, the glow of the monitor flickered back to life like a pulse returning. Reconnecting…

Session Expired Due to Inactivity.

Paul stared at the screen, willing it to undo itself. As if maybe if he just refreshed one more time, she’d still be there—waiting, typing, needing him. He opened the browser history, tried to retrace his steps the way he had with her form.

Nothing.

The state’s system wasn’t built for sentiment, just record-keeping. The chat was anonymous by design. Discreet. Secure. Impersonal.

Except it hadn’t felt that way.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard, but there was nothing to type. No name. No face. Just the trace of her voice in his head and the way her last message had clung to him.

He clicked on the transcript. Read it again. The words meant something. She meant something.

He minimized the file but didn’t close it. Just in case.

The lights flickered again, the storm outside reminding him it wasn’t done. But here inside the government building, the generator hummed steadily, like an artificial heartbeat. He was lucky to still have power. She probably didn’t.

He refreshed the chat again. Nothing.

Then he waited. And waited. A minute. Five. Ten.

The screen stayed empty. The box was silent.

She was gone.

And really, why would she come back? He’d fixed the issue. Answered her question. Solved her problem.

She'd been a little sharp around the edges. Not in a way that repelled him. If anything, he liked that she pushed back.

There was something about her—whoever she was—that stuck with him.

The way she tried so hard to stay in control, even while her anxiety hummed beneath every clipped message.

She reminded him of the clients he’d worked with, the soldiers he’d coached through panic attacks, the teenagers who said they were fine but couldn’t stop bouncing their knees.

She reminded him of people who didn’t need rescuing…

just a reason to believe someone would stand beside them.

She needed a steady hand. A little trust. Someone who could say I’ve got you and mean it.

His hand hovered over the mouse, considering. Her name would be on the forms when they came in. He could put a face to the fire in her words.

But no. That wasn’t right. That wasn’t fair. That wasn’t him.

He wasn’t a stalker. He was a show-up-when-it-counts kind of guy. If it was meant to be, they’d find each other again. Stranger things had happened.

He glanced at the clock. It was after midnight. His last shift in this building. On Monday, he’d be off to a new office, a new badge, a new set of lives to step into and try to help.

Paul leaned back in his chair, ran a hand through his hair, and took one last look at the blank chat window. Then he clicked the red “X” in the corner.

Goodbye, mystery woman.

He stood, stretched, and grabbed his coat from the back of the chair. The storm outside painted the windows white, but something inside him had settled. The kind of stillness that came after solving a puzzle. Except this one had a missing piece he couldn’t stop thinking about.

By the time he made it back to his apartment, the snow had thickened into silence.

Streets were hushed, the city muted under a soft, relentless white.

He spent the weekend snowed in—no ringing phones, no office chaos, just him, the hum of the radiator, and a dozen cardboard boxes waiting to be filled.

Packing wasn’t sentimental. He’d never stayed long enough anywhere for it to be.

Each file he tucked away, every plaque or coffee-stained notebook, marked the end of something familiar.

He was headed to a small town where he could make more of a difference.

Where kids slipped through the cracks less often.

Where every name on a folder meant more than just a caseload—it meant someone he might actually get to help in person.

From the driver's seat in his car, he looked out the window. The storm had lost its steam over the weekend. The streets were salted, the city slowly waking. And Paul Winters was starting over. He just hadn’t expected to already miss someone he’d never even met.

The wipers struggled against the windshield, clearing away snow that fell like confetti from a sky determined to throw one last winter tantrum. Paul leaned forward over the steering wheel, eyes squinting through the slush, jaw tight with concentration.

So much for a calm first day.

The roads into the small town were half-plowed at best, the kind that offered just enough traction to fool you before trying to spin you into a ditch.

His coffee had gone cold halfway through the drive, and his knuckles ached from clutching the wheel too long.

But when he finally saw the welcome sign, hand-painted and flanked by snowbanks, something inside him unclenched.

He parked behind the modest red-brick building with a hand-lettered Mayor’s Office plaque over the door, then pulled his coat tighter as the wind bit at his ears. The air smelled like wood smoke and fresh snow—clean, bright, and a little bit like hope.

Inside, the warmth hit him in a rush—along with the unmistakable, high-pitched warble of a baby. A chubby-cheeked little girl with the kind of lungs that could file a complaint three counties over voiced her protest.

The mayor—broad-shouldered, easy grin—was bouncing the baby against his chest with the kind of practiced rhythm that came from instinct, not instruction.

Beside him stood a woman who looked like she was born to wear confidence and cozy sweaters.

She had a ringless hand tucked into the mayor’s arm, but by the looks he kept sneaking her way, it wouldn’t stay that way for long.

“Paul Winters?” the mayor asked with a smile. “We’re real glad to have you.”

“Thanks, Mayor Carter.”

“This is my fiancée, Bunny Chou.”

“I haven't said yes yet,” said the woman by his side. But the way she grinned up at him told Paul all he needed to know about their impending nuptials.

“This the baby I heard about?” said Paul.

“Yep,” said the mayor. “Found her right before the snow hit. Just sitting on the front steps like someone special dropped her off with a prayer.”

The baby let out a satisfied gurgle, and Paul found himself smiling in return. “She’s beautiful. Any word about the parents?”

“Not a thing,” the mayor replied, gaze soft as he looked down at the baby girl. “Town’s buzzing, but no leads yet. Folks think she’s ours.”

Paul glanced between the two adults standing before him and the baby held between them.

It wasn’t just the fact that the child didn’t look like either of them—not the same race, not the same features.

It was the way they held her: fully, openly, like the little girl was a guest they wanted to stay.

But it was clear she hadn't started her life here.

Paul stepped closer, brushing a finger against the baby’s fist. She grasped it, tiny and determined. “She couldn’t land in better arms.”

How could a mother just walk away from this? Then again, maybe she hadn’t wanted to. Maybe she’d had no choice. Maybe the father didn’t even know.

Paul's own childhood had been a quilt of warm dinners and backyard soccer games, his father’s voice the sound of steady encouragement. He couldn’t imagine growing up without that. He wouldn’t let this little girl start her life feeling disposable.

“I don’t know how you got here, sweetheart, but I promise I’m going to do everything I can to make sure you end up right where you’re meant to be.”