“You’re still here,” he said.
“I’m still here,” I answered.
“Did I cry?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
He looked embarrassed.
I shrugged. “You’re alive. Crying is allowed.”
“Who was in charge?”
He stared at me like that was brand-new information.
We got in my car.
Andrew sat wrapped in my spare blanket.
He stared out the window like the trees might chase us.
“Who was in charge?” I asked.
He hesitated.
And one frantic man with a whistle.
Then whispered, “Mr. Reed.”
My gut tightened.
We reached the base.
The school bus was there.
Kids milling around. A few parents.
And one frantic man with a whistle.
I got out and shut the door hard.
Mr. Reed.
He spotted Andrew and rushed forward.
“Andrew!” he shouted. “Oh my God!”
Andrew shrank into the seat.
That told me everything.
I got out and shut the door hard.
“You lost a child.”
Mr. Reed reached for Andrew.
I stepped between them.
“Don’t touch him,” I snapped.
Mr. Reed blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You lost a child. In a lightning storm.”
“He wandered—”
“Thank you for your… assistance.”
“Stop,” I cut in. “You lost him.”
Parents stared. Kids stared.
Mr. Reed’s face tightened.
“We’ll handle it,” he said.
“No,” I said. “You already didn’t.”
He forced a smile. “Thank you for your… assistance.”
He grabbed my hand.
I stared him down.
Then I said, loud enough for everyone, “Count your kids twice.”
Andrew looked at me like he was drowning.
“You’re leaving?” he whispered.
“I have to,” I said gently.
He grabbed my hand.
He hugged me fast.
“You won’t forget me?” he asked.
My chest hurt.
“I won’t,” I said.
He whispered, “Claire.”
I nodded. “Andrew.”
He hugged me fast. Tight.
Life moved on.
Then he let go and stepped out.
He walked toward the group like it was punishment.
He looked back once.
I waved.
Then I drove away.
Life moved on.
I told people it was age.
Work. Bills. Aging.
My knees started barking on stairs.
Hiking became trickier.
Then stopped.
I told people it was age.
That was part of it.
Yesterday, a snowstorm rolled in fast.
But storms started making my chest tight.
And sometimes, when wind hit my house, I swore I heard that sob again.
So my world got smaller.
Quiet life. Safe life.
Yesterday, a snowstorm rolled in fast.
Thick flakes. Hard wind.
I walked to the door and looked out.
The kind that makes the street disappear.
I was folding towels when I heard a knock.
Soft. Careful.
Not my neighbor Bob. He pounds like he’s breaking in.
Not my friend Nina. She yells my name first.
This was polite.
I cracked open the door.
I walked to the door and looked out.
A tall young man stood on my porch.
Dark coat. Snow in his hair.
A large envelope tucked under his arm.
I cracked open the door.
“Yes?” I said.
My stomach dropped.
He smiled, nervous.
“Hi,” he said.
“Can I help you?” I asked.
He swallowed.
“I think you already did,” he said.
My stomach dropped.
My throat tightened.
“Twenty years ago,” he added.
I froze.
Those eyes.
Older now. But the same.
I whispered, “No way.”
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