Those eyes. That scar—angrier now, with rage.
Memory was strange. Forget birthdays, recall a thief’s face decades later.
They stared at each other.
Then she told him where she’d seen his son.
He called her a mad old bat and slammed the door. That night, paramedics took him away. He died days later.
She pitied him. It wasn’t *his* fault. Maybe she’d misremembered. At her age, who could say?
She nearly left Willowbrook. But where else would she go? Better to die among people. They’d find her, at least.
You never know where you’ll meet the past.
Be kind. Hold your loved ones close. And remember—some scars never fade.
