He cried.
And so did I.
Now, he comes by the café after closing.
We talk.
We learn each other slowly.
One night, I brought out a box I had kept for fifteen years.
A mitten. A toy train. A drawing with a bright yellow sun.
He picked up a sweater and went still.
“I remember this,” he whispered.
Not everything.
But something.
Enough.
Recently, I took him to the room I never changed.
He stood there for a long time… then stepped inside.
Holding the toy train, he turned to me and asked,
“Can you tell me about him?”
I smiled through tears.
“I can tell you about you.”
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