I was hired to find a man’s birth mother — a routine case, or so I thought. But as I dug deeper, strange coincidences surfaced, leading me somewhere I never expected. Some answers bring closure. Others open doors best left shut.

I sat in my office, staring at a stack of overdue rent bills. The red warning stamps glared at me like a judge about to hand down a sentence. I sighed, rubbing my temples.

It had been months since my last client. I had no idea what I was thinking when I decided to become a private detective.

Maybe I pictured myself solving big cases, making good money, and living like the detectives in movies.

Instead, I could barely afford a decent dinner. Instant noodles had become my only meal.

I leaned back in my chair, balancing a card between my fingers. I was halfway through building a house of cards on my desk when someone knocked on the door. The sudden sound made me jump, and the whole thing collapsed.

I sighed again.

I used to have an assistant, Stacy, but without clients, I couldn’t afford to keep her. It had been quiet for too long.

The knock came again.

“Come in!” I called out.

The doorknob turned, and a man walked in. He looked about my age, but nervous energy clung to him.

His hands rubbed together, and beads of sweat formed on his forehead. His eyes darted around the room.

He hesitated to speak, so I spoke first.

“I’m listening,” I said, motioning to the chair across from my desk. “Go ahead, take a seat. I don’t bite.”

The man hesitated, then sat down stiffly. His fingers twitched as he rubbed his hands together. His foot tapped against the floor.

“Uh, thanks,” he muttered. His voice was quiet, unsure.

I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the desk. “First time doing this?”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “I don’t know how it works. I wasn’t sure if I should even come.”

“You did, so that’s a start,” I said. “First time’s always the hardest. Next one will be easier.”

He let out a short, nervous laugh but didn’t look any less tense.

“Let’s start simple. Tell me your name,” I said.

“Matt,” he answered.

“Nice to meet you, Matt.” I gave him a reassuring nod. “What do you need help with?”

His hands gripped the arms of the chair. “I need to find my mother… well, not my mother. My mother died two years ago.” He paused, taking a slow breath. “I mean the woman who gave birth to me.”

I studied his face. His jaw was tight, his gaze locked on his hands.

“You want to find your biological mother,” I said.

He nodded, swallowing hard.

“Do you have anything to go on?”

“Only the city where I was born and my birthdate.”

I reached for a notepad. “What city?”

He told me, and I wrote it down. To my surprise, we were from the same town.

“Date of birth?”

“November 19, 1987.”

My pen stopped. My stomach twisted. That was my birthday too.

I forced my hand to move, writing it down.

“You’ll take the case?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. I needed the money. But this was personal.

“Thank you,” he whispered, standing.

“One last thing,” I said as he reached for the door.

He turned.

“How did you find me?”

“A girl from work. Stacy.”

I smiled. Stacy still had my back.

“That’s all,” I said.

Matt nodded and left.

The very next day, I stood in the hometown, staring at the familiar streets. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp pavement.

The place hadn’t changed much. Old brick buildings, faded signs, and quiet roads. It felt strange to be back.