He was on patrol at night when, suddenly, a call came through the radio: strange noises had been reported coming from an abandoned house…
I shouldn’t have gone there, that area wasn’t part of my route, but my heart clenched with an inexplicable feeling.
The house was dark and lifeless, but as I crossed the threshold, I heard a faint, muffled knock from the basement. I removed the chain from the door and went downstairs.
In the dim light, the flashlight illuminated the silhouette of a child. He wasn’t crying, he was only trembling, as if suspended between fear and hope.
I picked him up and took him to the hospital. Everything sprang into action immediately: doctors, nurses, police. No one could believe that someone was capable of such cruelty. Everyone was anxiously awaiting a single question: who had locked the child in the basement and how long had he been there?
When her condition stabilized, she remained silent. The next day I returned, introduced myself, and sat beside her. She looked at me and whispered softly, “Hello.”
I told her she was safe and that she could tell me what had happened. Her face paled, her gaze went blank.
I took her hand and promised that I wouldn’t let anyone hurt her. She was silent for a long time, then began to speak slowly—and each word seemed to burn the air around her.
He spoke in a low voice, as if afraid the walls could hear him. His hands trembled, his eyes darted, his breathing was ragged. I sat beside him, feeling an icy anger rising within me.
He said that the man who had locked him up came several times. He simply called him “uncle.” Sometimes other children appeared at the house. Some were taken away at night, others he never saw again. All of this continued for weeks.
Experts found children’s belongings in the basement. On the old computer, they found dozens of files with lists, dates, and brief descriptions. Each line contained a child’s name.
The news called it “the black house case.” The city was in shock. No one could believe that all this was happening just a few miles from the road we traveled every day.
Later we also found him—the one the boy called “uncle.” He tried to escape across the border, but he was stopped. During questioning, he said almost nothing. He just smiled and asked,
“Do you think I was alone?”
Investigators discovered he was involved in child trafficking. The network extended far beyond the country, and the roadside house was just one of the points.
When I found out, I went back to the hospital. He wasn’t alone in the room anymore—his parents were sitting beside him, pale and exhausted, but with the light in their eyes that had returned.
The boy stared silently out the window, holding his mother’s hand. I approached, stopped at the door, then took a step forward.
“It’s over,” I said softly. “Now you’re home. You’re free.”
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