You did not remember.
That made it more beautiful.
I was 19 again.
I looked up.
“How did he find me?”
Mr. Baron rested the faded novel on the table.
“He didn’t find you all at once.”
I frowned.
He opened the book. Between two pages rested a pressed red maple leaf, brittle with age.
Memory struck before I touched it.
“He didn’t find you all at once.”
One autumn, I had borrowed Carl’s favorite book. When I returned it, I slipped a bright red leaf between the pages.
“Now you’ll never lose your place,” I had joked.
Carl kept it like a treasure.
A sharp burn flared behind my collarbone as I tried to swallow.
“He never contacted me.”
“Now you’ll never lose your place.”
“Arthur wouldn’t let him,” Mr. Baron said.
