It had just started raining when Radhika Mehra emerged from an upscale toy store in Delhi with her seven-year-old son, Aryan.

The child was laughing, hugging his new LEGO box, while the world around him felt colorful and safe. Radhika held an umbrella over them both and looked up at the sky, where clouds rumbled with a soft thunder.

They were crossing the street toward their car when Aryan suddenly stopped.
—Mom—he said, pulling her hand and pointing across the street—that kid looks just like me!

Radhika followed her gaze.

Across the street, near the bakery, a small child stood under a broken umbrella. His clothes were wet and dirty, his hair matted and sticking to his forehead. He was eating directly from a discarded sandwich packet.

Despite the dirt, there was something strangely familiar about him: the same kohl-rimmed eyes, the same dimple on his chin, the same faint smile.

—Aryan, don’t show me your hands—Radhika said softly, trying to nudge him forward—Come on, son.

But Aryan wasn’t moving.
—Mom…really, he looks like me. Is he my brother?

Radhika paused. Her breath caught. She slowly looked at the child.

Her heart began to pound.

On the left side of the child’s neck, barely visible beneath the dirt, was a small, light stain, shaped like a tear.

A strange dizziness swept over her.

Radhika’s late husband, Anurag, used to call it “the angel’s kiss.”

Their first son, Naman, was born with a similar stain.

Naman…had disappeared from a Delhi park five years ago.

Despite the police, private detectives, and countless nights of searching, he was never found.

Radhika’s vision blurred. Her bag fell to the ground, but her eyes remained fixed on the child.

Her voice trembled:
—Oh God… Naman?

The child looked up. Their eyes met for a moment—suspicious and confused—and then he took his bag and ran into a nearby alley.
Radhika, slipping in the rain, cried out:
—Stop! Please, stop!

But he had disappeared.

And years later, a hope buried deep within Radhika resurfaced.

That night, Radhika didn’t sleep. Whenever she closed her eyes, the child’s face was before her—his eyes, the scars, his reaction to her voice. This couldn’t be a coincidence.

As soon as the sun rose, she made a decision.

She called her old friend, Marisa Horne—a private detective who had worked on Naman’s kidnapping case years before.
—Marisa—she said softly—”I think I found him.”

They met near the bakery where Radhika had seen the child.

They waited for hours in the rain, and finally he reappeared: emerging from a nearby alley, carrying a broken bag.
Radhika’s heart was pounding. She followed him silently, afraid she might scare him.

Near a coffee shop, she cautiously approached him and said:
—Hello—she said softly—”You must be cold. Can I get you something hot to drink?”

The child nodded hesitantly.

While he was eating some pakoras, Radhika asked:
—What’s your name?

He looked up.
—Naman—he said softly—”Yes… By the way, that’s the name my caregiver gave me.”

Radhika’s breath stopped.
—Who was she?

—She left one night—the child whispered—she said she would return…but never did.

Radhika glanced down, her eyes brimming with tears.

Then she saw a small silver plane hanging from the child’s neck. She immediately recognized it: it was the gift she had given Naman on his fifth birthday.

Her hands trembled.
—Naman…where did you get this?

—My mother gave it to me—the child said—before I lost it.

While Radhika occupied the child with sweets, Marisa quietly took his DNA sample.

The result came the next day.

99.9% match.

Naman Mehra—her Naman—was alive.

Radhika fell to her knees, sobbing. Years of guilt, pain, and sleepless nights crumbled together.

When she went to the shelter where Naman was staying, she saw him sitting by the window, watching the rain.

He didn’t smile at her. He just looked warily, as if afraid the world might take him away again.

Radhika knelt in front of him.
—Naman—she said in a trembling voice—it’s me. I’m your mother.

She glanced at the small silver plane.
—You gave it to me, didn’t you?

Radhika nodded, tears falling.
—Yes, my son. I never stopped looking.

After a few moments, Naman reached out and took her hand.

His hand was small and trembling… but it was enough.

Later that night, Aryan came shyly into the room.
—Mom said you’re my brother—he said—will you play with me?

Naman hesitated for a moment, then smiled.
A small, delicate smile… but enough to heal Radhika’s heart.

Over the weeks, Radhika devoted herself entirely to Naman’s care, legal paperwork, and mental strength. She founded an organization:
“Angel’s Mark Foundation”—to protect and safeguard children, in honor of her son’s birthmark.

One night, as she was getting both children ready for bed, Naman whispered:
—Mom… I thought no one would ever find me.

Radhika stroked his hair and kissed him on the forehead.
—I never stopped trying—he said—and I will never leave you.

The rain outside had stopped.

Inside, after five years, a house was complete again.