This was quickly turning into something far beyond a simple case of a lost toddler. The mall cop and I exchanged bewildered glances, the eerie footage looping on the tiny screen. The boy, standing barefoot by the car, kept crying for his “other dad,” the one who didn’t talk with his mouth. Something about it sent chills rippling down my spine.

We decided to take the boy to the security office, hoping maybe someone would come looking for him or that we could make sense of this odd situation. He clung to my hand as we walked, his tiny fingers sticky with sweat and fear. He seemed so small and fragile against the backdrop of towering adults and bustling shoppers.

Once inside, the security team offered him a juice box and a teddy bear. He settled in a chair, his tears ebbing into quiet sniffles, but his eyes remained wide and vigilant, scanning every face as if hoping to recognize someone, anyone, as familiar.

I sat beside him, unsure of what to do or say. “Do you remember your name?” I asked softly.

He shook his head. “Other dad calls me Little Star.”

“Little Star,” I repeated, trying to suppress the shiver that ran through me. There was something unsettlingly ethereal about it, something that made me question the reality of the situation.

I decided to try another approach. “Little Star, do you remember what the movie was about?”

His face brightened for a moment. “Spaceships and stars and a big, big moon.”

The security guard chimed in. “Sounds like he’s talking about ‘Galactic Voyage.’ It’s showing at the cinema here.”

I nodded, though it did little to clear the fog of confusion. “Maybe we should check the theater again, see if anyone’s missing a kid.”

As we made our way back, the boy clinging to my hand like a lifeline, I couldn’t shake the image of the shadow holding an invisible hand. It gnawed at the edges of my mind, pressing questions I couldn’t yet articulate.

We reached the theater, where a few families still lingered, but none claimed to know the boy. In desperation, we asked the theater manager if anyone had reported a missing child. The answer was a disappointing no.

With growing concern, I crouched down to his level once more. “Do you remember your other dad’s name?”

He looked thoughtful, then said, “He tells me to call him Whisper.”

“Whisper?” I echoed, feeling a strange mix of emotions—fear, intrigue, disbelief.

Suddenly, the boy’s eyes darted over my shoulder, and he smiled, a genuine, radiant smile that lit up his face in contrast to the previous tears. He lifted his arm, reaching into the empty air beside him, as if grasping an unseen hand.

I turned, half expecting to see a figure, anyone, but there was nothing. Just the empty lobby, the muted buzz of the mall beyond.

“Whisper’s here,” the boy said confidently.

My heart skipped an uncomfortable beat as I stood rooted to the spot. What did this mean? I struggled with the notion of the impossible—an invisible guardian, an unexplainable arrival.

In those moments of bewildering silence, the mall cop decided to contact the authorities for further assistance, and I could only hope that they could unravel the mystery of the boy called Little Star and the enigmatic presence of Whisper.