Part 3: The Broken Thread
The sun rose on New Year’s Day, casting a bright, blinding light across the snow-covered estate. For the first time since Ara’s passing, the mansion did not feel entirely like a tomb.
Dr. Evans arrived early. He was an elderly man with kind eyes and a gentle demeanor. After a thorough examination of Ren, he met with Weston in the study, his expression grave but relieved.
"She’s severely malnourished, Weston," Dr. Evans said, sipping his coffee. "Mild frostbite on her fingertips and toes, but fortunately, no permanent tissue damage. She has some old scarring on her shoulder that looks like abuse, or perhaps a severe fall from a long time ago. But the real issue is psychological. She’s hyper-vigilant. She has survived by trusting absolutely no one."
"Where are her parents?" Weston asked, staring out the window at the pristine snow.
"I asked her gently," the doctor replied. "She told me her mother 'went to sleep in the snow' a year ago. She doesn’t remember a father. She’s been bouncing between temporary shelters and the streets ever since. She ran away from a state facility three months ago because she said it 'smelled like bad choices.' The child is brilliant, Weston. And terrified."
Weston rubbed his temples. "I told her she wouldn't have to go back."
Dr. Evans looked at his longtime friend. "You know what that means, right? The state will get involved the moment we try to make this official. Social services, background checks, foster care system... they won’t just let a billionaire keep a child he found in his trash bins, no matter how good your intentions are."
"I have the best lawyers in the country," Weston said coldly. "I can buy the system if I have to."
"You can't buy a child’s trust, Weston," Dr. Evans countered softly. "And you can't buy the law when it comes to child welfare. Do it right. For Ren’s sake. And for Juny’s."
As if on cue, the sound of tiny footsteps echoed outside the study. Weston opened the door to find Juny and Ren standing there. Ren was wearing the oversized wool sweater Weston had given her, which swallowed her like a dress. She looked healthier after a few hours of sleep, but she was clinging to Juny’s sleeve.
In Juny’s other hand was a hairbrush.
"Daddy," Juny said, looking up at him. "Ren wants braids. Like the ones Mommy used to make."
Weston froze. He looked at the hairbrush, then at the two little girls. "Juny... you know I’m terrible at braids. I always make them look like lumpy ropes."
Ren looked down at the floor. "It’s okay. I don't need them."
Juny took Ren’s hand. "Daddy can try. Mommy said trying is how you show someone you love them."
The mention of Ara usually brought a wave of crippling grief over Weston, but today, looking at these two girls, it felt like a gentle push. He swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded. "Alright. Come here. Let's try."
They sat on the living room rug by the roaring fire. Weston knelt behind Ren, carefully detangling her dark hair. He divided it into three sections, his large, calloused hands clumsy and awkward. Juny sat in front of Ren, holding the crooked doll, talking to her in a quiet, steady stream of consciousness about her school, her favorite colors, and how she hated broccoli.
Ren listened intently, occasionally nodding.
Weston’s first attempt at a braid was a disaster. It unraveled in seconds.
"See?" Weston sighed, frustrated with himself. "I told you, I’m no good at this."
Ren turned her head slightly, looking at him over her shoulder. "It’s okay. My mommy’s braids always fell out too. She said it just meant our hair wanted to be free."
A soft laugh escaped Juny’s lips. It was a tiny, delicate sound, but to Weston, it sounded like a thunderclap in a desert. He looked at his daughter, whose eyes were shining with a warmth he hadn't seen since the accident.
Weston looked at Ren, realizing that this little girl, who had absolutely nothing, had just given his daughter the greatest gift imaginable. She had brought a piece of Ara’s joy back into the house.
"Let’s try again," Weston said, his hands steadier this time. He crossed the strands carefully, focusing entirely on the task. It wasn't perfect—it was a bit loose and slightly crooked—but by the time he secured it with a pink hair tie, it stayed.
Ren reached up, touching the braid with her small fingers. A tiny, tentative smile spread across her face. It was the first time her face had truly softened.
But the fragile peace was shattered two days later.
Weston had initiated the legal process, hiring the top family law attorneys in the state to track down Ren’s records and file for emergency guardianship. However, the system moved according to its own rigid rules.
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A knock came at the door on a Tuesday afternoon. Standing on the porch were two police officers and a stern-looking woman from the Department of Child Services, holding a clipboard.
"Mr. Vale," the woman said, her voice devoid of emotion. "We have a report of an unregistered minor residing at this address. We are here to take custody of Ren Doe."
