His life was simple, almost austere: work hard all day, then return in the evening to a small rented room in a working-class neighborhood,
eat a modest meal and fall asleep immediately to face the next day.
Miguel had grown up in an orphanage in Paris. From a very young age, he knew that he had been abandoned in front of the gate of the center.
He had no memory of his parents, no idea of his origins. Over time, he had become accustomed to living without question, as if his past was a double-locked door.
That day, as the workers began to put away their tools, a little boy of about eight or nine years old timidly approached the gate of the construction site.
His clothes were dirty, his shoes worn, and his red eyes seemed to betray long minutes of crying.
“Sir… Do you have a phone? Can I call? I’m lost…
Miguel looked around. The site was still busy, but everyone was busy. Αfter a short moment of hesitation, he took his old phone out of his pocket.
