out of alignment. I blink—and she is gone.
Not walking away. Not hidden behind the tree.
Gone.
That night, memory starts to crack.
It hits in fragments first—blurred images, sensations without full shape. Sirens. Rain streaking a windshield. A child’s scream that is not my son’s. My hands gripping wet pavement. Blood on my sleeves that is not mine. I wake continue reading …
