"I hate this miserable life, Frank!"
Mirabel's shriek cracked the early morning calm, echoing like a scream in a canyon. The sun hadn't yet broken fully over Brookend, but their tiny home was already ablaze with fury.
"You hear me? I hate it! I hate this crumbling house. I hate waking up every morning to the sound of rats in the walls. I hate the stench of garbage and sweat that follows you around like a damn shadow!" Her voice was ragged, wild with years of pent-up rage.
Frank Bennett stood at the foot of the stairs, shoulders tense beneath his faded work shirt, hands trembling around a chipped ceramic mug. The steam from his untouched coffee curled up uselessly into the chilly air, ignored and unwanted—just like him.
"Mirabel, please—"
"Don't 'please' me, Frank!" she snapped, whipping around with eyes blazing. "I was somebody before I met you. I had dreams. I had offers. I was going places. But you—" she stabbed a finger in his direction—"you dragged me down into this pit and convinced me it was home!"
"You said you loved me," Frank murmured, voice cracking.
Mirabel laughed, short and bitter. "Love? God, how pathetic. I must've been out of my mind."
She spun toward the hallway, where a glossy red suitcase waited like a silent accomplice. Her heels clicked furiously across the floorboards as she grabbed the handle, her scarlet coat swirling behind her like a flame set to burn the past.
Little Eliana, only four, crouched behind the half-closed hallway door, a threadbare teddy clutched tight to her chest. Her big honey-brown eyes peeked through the crack, wide and trembling.
Frank noticed her and took a single step forward. "Mirabel… Eliana. Don't leave her."
Mirabel paused by the threshold, one manicured hand smoothing down her silky scarf. She looked back, not at Frank, but at the tiny figure hiding in the shadows.
"At least say goodbye to her," Frank said, almost choking on the words. "Don't just disappear."
With a roll of her eyes and a sigh sharp enough to draw blood, Mirabel crouched—just for a moment. "Be a good girl," she said to Eliana, her voice devoid of any warmth. No kiss. No hug. Just a few cold, brittle words she'd likely forget before noon.
Then she stood and walked out.
The door shut behind her with a hollow bang—the kind that doesn't just close, but seals something in. Or out.
And for the rest of her life, Eliana would remember that sound—not the words, not the suitcase, not the coat—but that final bang, echoing in her chest like a wound that never quite healed.
Six Years Later…
"God, this hill again," Frank Bennett muttered under his breath, muscles straining as he pushed the rusty handle of his garbage cart up the steep incline of Elston Avenue. The morning was barely awake—just a pale smear of sun brushing against the rooftops—yet sweat was already beading on his brow.
The air smelled of city dust, old banana peels, and engine grease. Flies buzzed lazily near the dumpsters, and the asphalt shimmered with dew that hadn't yet evaporated. But Frank didn't complain.
He never did.
His hands, hardened and cracked, bore the story of every hard-earned coin. His faded navy uniform clung to him in all the wrong places, seams worn out, the badge over his chest barely readable: Frank B. Still, he wore it with a quiet kind of dignity. As if the name stitched there was more than thread—like it stood for something that mattered.
At the corner of Elston, just beneath a crooked streetlamp humming with tired electricity, he paused beside an overflowing dumpster. The lid hung open, cockeyed and defiant. A black garbage bag, partly torn, spilled open onto the pavement.
Curious, Frank nudged it gently with his stick.
Clink.
It didn't seem like the sound of tin cans or leftover bones. This was… heavier. Delicate.
Frowning, Frank bent down, peeled the plastic bag open—and gasped.
Inside the torn bag was a velvet-lined box, the kind that belonged in grand glass cases and private safes. Nestled within, jewelry sparkled like spilled stars. Sapphire necklaces tangled with ruby-studded bracelets. Diamond earrings winked beneath the morning light like secrets. And there, tucked against the edge of the box, was a brown leather wallet—sleek, polished and expensive.
Frank's heart pounded as he picked it up with trembling fingers. He flipped it open.
Kenneth Holloway.
The ID practically screamed wealth—government-issued, crisp, with an address printed in bold letters: Hyde Crescent. This was the kind of neighborhood with fountains instead of flowerpots. With gates taller than his dreams.
Frank looked around.
Nothing. No footsteps. No voices. No cameras. The street was still.
He glanced back at the treasure in his hands. His mind raced. What if someone sees me? What if they think I stole it? What if I take it to the police and and they make it disappear?
His stomach twisted. He couldn't afford risk. Not with Eliana depending on him for every grain of rice, every used schoolbook, every secondhand shoe. She was only ten—but already wiser than most grown men and women. Too wise, in truth.
Frank whispered a quiet prayer under his breath and, after wrapping the box in an old towel from his cart, tucked the wallet carefully into his chest pocket.
Then he started walking.