One afternoon, at a construction site on the outskirts of Paris, as the sunlight began to fade, the sounds of shovels mixing cement and bricks clashing still filled the air.
Miguel, a man in his early thirties, wiped the sweat from his forehead and sat down beside a stack of bricks.
His life was simple, almost bare: work tirelessly all day, then return at night to a small rented room in a working-class neighborhood, eat a modest meal, and go straight to sleep before facing the next day again.
Miguel had grown up in an orphanage in Paris. From a very young age, he knew he had been abandoned at its gates. He had no memory of his parents, no knowledge of where he came from.
Over time, he learned to live without asking questions, as if his past were a door sealed shut.
