Chapter 2 Grandpa Hamm
Based on her harrowing experiences of being mugged three times in the past year in the West District, Daphne Finney knew one thing for sure—these Black T-Shirt Gang members wouldn’t kill as long as they got their money. In their twisted logic, if someone was willing to pay for their life once, they might be willing to do it again the next time. Killing off their sources of money would be bad for business.
Rob the East District? Ha! Those guys weren’t ones to mess with!
Daphne Finney lived in the West District, temporarily staying at her sister’s house. She was a beautiful woman but utterly broke.
She had no idea how much time had passed when the terrifying car horn finally faded into the distance. The streets gradually regained a fragile sense of calm.
Daphne kept one hand on the older man’s shoulder while pressing her ear to the ground, resembling a frightened deer, hyper-alert and listening intently for any lingering footsteps.
She dared open her eyes only when she heard people around her slowly getting up—the rustling of clothes, the rhythmic tapping of shoes against the pavement. She gently patted the elderly man lying motionless on the ground and softly called, “Sir? Are you alright?”
The older man remained motionless, eyes shut. It was unclear whether he was in shock or had fallen asleep.
Daphne didn’t know what someone looked like when terrified of their wits. But she clearly remembered the first time she had heard the hellish roar of machine guns on the street—she had been so frightened she lost control of her bladder. That bone-deep terror still haunted her like a recurring nightmare.
So, she could understand any reaction caused by extreme fear, including passing out like this older man.
She gripped his shoulder tightly, glancing nervously at the scattered passersby. Desperation filled her eyes as she realized no one was going to help.
In the West District, people were too busy struggling to survive to concern themselves with others. No one wanted trouble.
Anxious, Daphne began dragging the older man toward the wall, propping him up against it. She lightly patted his face and shoulders again.
She knew it wasn’t polite, but she was more afraid that the police would arrive soon. If she didn’t leave quickly, she’d be hauled to the station again and forced to spend another tedious afternoon answering the same questions.
The questions were the same every time: What did the criminals look like? How many were there? What were they wearing? What did they say?
After that, they’d shove her out the door.
The patient officers would at least tell her to “go home and wait for news.” The grumpier ones? They’d slam the iron door shut with a loud clang.
In the West District, waiting for the police to catch criminals was a never-ending dream.
If the police were capable of bringing these ruthless thugs to justice, she wouldn’t have been mugged three times in a single year.
Since giving statements was pointless, Daphne saw no reason to waste her time on them.
She checked her watch—12:00 p.m.
Her heart sank. At 1:00 p.m., an old client was scheduled to pick up a handwritten hand sculpture from her workshop.
But the older man hadn’t woken up yet. She couldn’t just leave him lying here in this dangerous place.
Judging by his fine alpaca wool coat and the embroidered initials on his tailored suit sleeves, he was a man of wealth. If she left him here, within two hours, he’d be stripped bare by the local hoodlums and left to freeze to death.
Daphne used her foot to nudge his discarded cane closer, then took a deep breath and patted his shoulder again, whispering, “Sir, are you alright? Sir, wake up. Now isn’t the time to be sleeping.”
Minutes ticked by, and then, at last, his eyelids fluttered open.
His gaze was clouded with misty confusion, as if trapped in a dream he hadn’t yet escaped.
His trembling hand slowly lifted to touch his snowy-white hair, then drifted down to his silver beard. His careful move, as if confirming his existence, made him seem fragile and lost.
Then, surprisingly, his hand reached out toward Daphne. He gently stroked her curled hair, his touch filled with curiosity and affection.
“The resemblance... It’s uncanny. Beth wasn’t lying after all.”
Ham Koch stared at the young woman before him. She looked exactly like the girl in his dreams, especially in terms of her eyes and hair.
This was the woman his wife Beth had promised to find for their grandson, Charles Koch, in her dreams!
Hahaha!
Excellent! Wonderful! Charles finally had a wife!
The more Ham thought about it, the happier he became.
Daphne, however, was growing increasingly uncomfortable. The older man was staring at her with the same excitement as someone who had just reunited with a long-lost daughter. Her lips curled into a hesitant smile as she awkwardly waved a hand before his eyes.
“Sir? Can you hear me?”
The older man remained as composed and elegant as ever. Slowly, he pushed himself up from her knees, stood tall, and then bent down to pick up his hat from the ground.
He carefully brushed the dust from the fabric, treating it with great reverence, before placing it back on his head with the practiced grace of a true gentleman. Every movement he made exuded an innate refinement, as if he had stepped straight out of a bygone era of nobility.
Daphne handed him his cane and said earnestly, “I’m so glad you’re awake, sir. You should leave this dangerous part of town as soon as possible. This isn’t the place for you. I have work this afternoon, so I need to go now.”
As for the necklace she had given to the gangsters to save this older man, she had never expected to get it back. To her, helping others was something one did without expecting anything in return.
However, just as she turned to leave, the older man suddenly reached out and grabbed her wrist.
“Come home with me,” he said softly.
Daphne didn’t catch what he had said.