“I failed you,” he whispered hoarsely, pressing his palm flat against the stone as if it might answer him. “I was supposed to protect you. I was supposed to keep you safe.”

What Michael could not see was that he was not alone in his mourning.

Just beyond the curve of the path, partially concealed by the thick trunk of the maple tree, a small figure stood motionless, wrapped in an oversized jacket, her thin arms crossed tightly over her chest as she fought the cold and the fear twisting inside her. Her hair was tangled, her shoes worn through at the soles, and her face bore faint scratches that told a story no child should ever have to live through