The autumn sun gently caressed the golden facades of the city. In a wealthy neighborhood where every house seemed to have come straight out of a magazine, a young boy descended the marble steps of a white mansion. Ashton, twelve years old, heir to a colossal fortune, walked slowly, hands in his pockets, temporarily escaping the noise of the servants and the overly sweet voice of his mother repeating,
“Don’t go too far, my dear.”

But Ashton needed silence. He had everything: the most expensive toys, a closet full of impeccable clothes, private lessons, and yet… something was missing. He didn’t know what. Maybe it was freedom. Maybe a true friend.

As he walked along the sidewalk in front of the wrought-iron gate, a movement caught his eye. There, just a few meters away, a boy his age, dressed in rags, was rummaging through a trash bin with quick motions. His blonde hair, though dirty, shone in the light. Ashton stopped, his mouth slightly open.
His heart skipped a beat.

It was impossible.

The boy looked up, surprised by the presence of a stranger. Their eyes met. And Ashton felt as though he was looking into a mirror.

Same face, the same deep blue eyes, the same delicate nose, the same golden lock falling across the forehead. Except this mirror was cracked, dulled by dust and misery.

For a moment, time seemed to stand still. No words were spoken. Ashton blinked several times, thinking he was dreaming.

“You… you look like me,” he finally whispered, his voice trembling.

The street boy took a step back, wary. His dirty hands clenched around a torn plastic bag.

“I don’t know you,” he answered in a low, hoarse voice from shouting in the cold.

Ashton took a step forward.
“Wait! I don’t want to hurt you. I just… want to understand.”

The boy hesitated, scanning Ashton from head to toe: the polished shoes, the pristine shirt, the sparkling watch. Two opposite worlds, yet the same face.

“What’s your name?” Ashton asked.

A long silence followed. Then, almost whispering,
“Luke.”

Ashton smiled, genuinely.
“Nice to meet you, Luke. I’m Ashton.”

He extended his hand. The gesture, simple and human, seemed to overwhelm the street boy. No one had ever shaken his hand. He’d been insulted, pushed away, ignored. But never greeted.

Hesitantly, Luke extended his own hand. The contact was brief, but filled with a strange warmth. Ashton felt a shiver run through him: a sense of absolute familiarity, as if he were reconnecting with a lost part of himself.

“Where do you live?” Ashton asked, curious.

Luke lowered his gaze.
“Nowhere. Sometimes here, sometimes there. I sleep over by the train station.”

Before Ashton could reply, a feminine voice echoed behind him:
“Ashton! Where are you?”

It was his mother, Penelope. Authoritative, but full of concern.

The young millionaire turned to Luke, his eyes shining with excitement.
“Come on! You have to meet her! She won’t believe her eyes!”

But Luke suddenly recoiled, panicked.
“No! I can’t!”

And before Ashton could say a word, he fled down an alley, disappearing like a shadow.

“Wait!” Ashton shouted.

But the silence responded.

A few seconds later, Penelope appeared, out of breath. Her perfectly pressed beige suit contrasted with her worried face.
“My God, Ashton, you scared me! Why did you go outside alone?”

“I just wanted some air, Mom,” he replied softly.

“You know I don’t like it when you stay outside. It’s dangerous. Come on, let’s go inside. Your father is waiting for us, it’s his birthday.”

Ashton sighed. He didn’t want to celebrate the birthday of the man he called his father, without ever feeling a real love between them. Alphonso, his father, was cold, distant, always preoccupied with his business.

“Okay, Mom…”

But before following Penelope, Ashton threw one last glance at the street. Where Luke had vanished. He was certain he had to see him again.

That evening, the party was in full swing in the grand living room of the mansion. Chandeliers sparkled, guests laughed, and a huge cake sat at the center of the table. Ashton smiled mechanically for the cameras, for the polite greetings of the adults, but his mind wandered elsewhere.

He kept seeing Luke’s face. That sad look, proud despite the misery.
He wanted to find him, to understand this strange connection.

Later, in his luxurious room, he lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling.
“How is this possible?” he murmured.

Meanwhile, in a freezing alley of the lower city, Luke lay on a damp cardboard box. The stars shone above him, indifferent. His thoughts were full of the face of the boy he had just met.

“Why does he look so much like me?” he whispered.

Two children, two worlds. An invisible mystery already bound them together.

That night, in the master bedroom of the mansion, Penelope tossed and turned restlessly. Her sleep was troubled, haunted by a recurring dream. She saw herself in a hospital room, gasping, her belly enormous, the pain excruciating. Then a scream.
A baby. Ashton.
But she could still feel another heartbeat inside her. Another child.

In the dream, she saw a nurse take away a second baby, wrapped in a sheet.
She screamed:
“No! Don’t take him! Give him to me!”

And she woke up with a start, her forehead covered in sweat.
“My son… don’t take him!” she cried.

Beside her, Alphonso jerked awake, irritated.
“Wake up, Penelope. It’s just a nightmare. Ashton is in his room. Everything’s fine.”

It took her a few seconds to return to reality, her breath heavy.
“It felt so real…” she murmured.

“Same dream again?” Alphonso asked in a tired tone.

She nodded.
“I felt… two babies, Alphonso. Two!”

He sighed deeply, running a hand over his face.
“My love, you should see someone. It’s just illusions. We only had one child. Just one.”

But Penelope lowered her head, her eyes lost in the void.
Yet she remembered so clearly… that too-round belly, the double heartbeat, that sense of a doubled anticipation.

What if it wasn’t just a dream?

The next morning, as the sun filtered through the curtains, the house came to life. Ashton, still thoughtful, ate his breakfast in silence. Penelope, elegant and smiling despite her dark circles, tried to hide her unease.

“I’ll take you to school, my angel,” she said, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Alphonso entered the room, dressed in a casual suit.
“I’ll join you later. I need to stop by my sister’s before going to the office,” he announced.

At these words, Ashton clenched his fists under the table. He didn’t like it when his father talked about this mysterious sister he had never met.

A few minutes later, mother and son left.

As soon as the car drove away, Alphonso’s expression changed. His jaw tightened. He grabbed the phone and dialed a number, his hand trembling.

“She’s still having those dreams,” he said in a grave voice. “She remembers too much. I fear she’ll discover the truth about what happened when Ashton was born.”

He fell silent, listening to the voice on the other end. Then added:
“I’m coming to see you. This story must stay buried, no matter the cost.”

He hung up abruptly, grabbed his keys, and left the house.

In his mind, one sentence echoed:
If she discovers the truth, everything will collapse.

Meanwhile, at school, Ashton stared absently at the board, lost in his thoughts. The teacher’s voice was distant, muffled by the memory of a face identical to his own.

A face from the streets.

A brother, perhaps.
A secret, surely.

And in the murmur of the wind, fate slowly began to unveil itself.

Read more here:

PART 2: “Mom, this is my brother!” – the little boy said to his millionaire mother. Then…