When the woman lifted her gaze, her cloudy eyes sparked with a strange, faint recognition. Leonardo — normally steady and composed — felt his hands tremble. The director informed him that her name was Carmen, a long-term resident with no registered relatives and very limited recollection of her past.

Everything in Leonardo insisted he walk away. But he couldn’t. Something inside him whispered that this woman was not a stranger.

He crouched before her. Slowly, Carmen raised a trembling hand and touched his cheek — a soft, hesitant caress, familiar in a way he couldn’t explain.

Then she murmured a word.

A name.

A name only people who loved him used:

“Leo…”