The afternoon heat beat down on the city of Accra, making the air thick and restless. In a quiet park tucked away among busy streets, long shadows stretched across the grass.
But Marcus Bennett barely noticed any of that.
He had once been a feared titan in the world of international finance; his name commanded respect from glass towers to bustling markets. Yet today he sat hunched over a wooden bench, looking like a man defeated by something money couldn’t fix.
Sitting next to her was her seven-year-old daughter, Lila.
She clutched a white cane in her small hands.
Even in that sweltering heat, she wore a thick sweater, as if trying to protect herself from a world she could no longer see.
Marcus glanced at his watch out of habit, but time meant nothing anymore. For six months, his daughter’s eyesight had been fading, dying irretrievably no matter how many specialists he flew in.
London. Dubai. New York.
Always the same answer.
A rare degenerative disease.
But deep down, Marcus didn’t believe it.
Because it didn’t seem natural.
He felt… bad.
“Dad,” Lila whispered softly, “is it night already?”
Marcus’s chest tightened.
It was only mid-afternoon.
“No, darling,” she said, forcing a calm tone in her voice. “It’s just some clouds passing by.”
That’s when he noticed the child.
I wasn’t begging. I wasn’t selling anything.
I was just standing there… watching.
He looked about ten years old, dressed in worn clothes, but his eyes… his eyes were steady, sharp, almost unsettling.
Marcus sighed, already irritated. “Not today, kid. Go your own way.”
The child did not move.
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