The bank was quiet in that cold, polished way rich places always are.
A boy no older than ten stood at the marble counter, holding a worn canvas bag. He placed it carefully in front of the teller, a serious young man in a black vest.
The teller looked down, eyebrows drawn together. “What do you want?”
The boy’s voice was small but steady. “My dad sent me.”
He unzipped the bag. Inside were old gold coins, yellowed papers, and a silver pocket watch on a chain. The teller’s expression shifted from annoyance to confusion.
“Where did you get that?”
The boy reached in and pulled out the pocket watch. “He said they were yours to recognize.”
He opened the watch. Inside the lid was a small, faded photograph of a little boy.
The teller stared at it, then at the child in front of him.
The boy continued, voice barely above a whisper: “He said if he didn’t come back… you’d know I was his son.”
The entire counter seemed to hold its breath.