The first photograph showed a thin teenage boy with a backpack, sleeping on a bench near a train station.
In the second, the same boy sat outside a store, drawing something on a piece of cardboard.
The next photographs showed a shelter, a cheap rented room, a construction site, and a small art workshop.
The farther I walked, the more my hands trembled.
Because every single photograph showed my wife’s son.
I recognized him immediately.
One of the gallery employees quietly explained that after leaving my house that evening, the boy had lived on the streets for several weeks.
Eventually, he was allowed to spend the night at a shelter, where a volunteer noticed that he was constantly drawing.
Someone gave him some old paints and paper.
Later, he began helping at a small art workshop. Eventually, he enrolled in school while working nights to support himself.
A few years later, his drawings caught the attention of that famous artist.
The artist helped him launch his career.
I finally reached the last wall.
There was an enormous photograph of a young man standing beside a painting.
Beneath it hung a small plaque.
“This exhibition is dedicated to a man who once lost his home but managed to rebuild his life.”
I stared at his face for a long time.
