A bicycle leaning outside a shop reminded me of the one we shared when we were nine.
Even the smell of coffee from a corner stand pulled me backward because Logan had once worked mornings at a diner and claimed he could identify six different coffee brands by smell.
He couldn’t.
I had tested him.
He got one right.
At eleven thirty, my partner from the afternoon rotation found me filling out a routine report at the station.
Officer Maya Chen had known me for four years, which meant she had developed the irritating ability to notice when something was wrong even when I was trying very hard to look ordinary.
She leaned against the edge of the desk.
“You’ve read that sentence six times.”
“I’m being thorough.”
“You’re holding the report upside down.”
I looked at it.
It wasn’t upside down.
Maya smiled.
“Made you check.”
I gave her a look.
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
“Colin.”
I sighed.
“I met my nephew today.”
She blinked.
“I didn’t know you had a nephew.”
“Neither did I.”
That erased the humor from her face.
She pulled over a chair.
I told her the shortened version.
Tattoo.
Photograph.
Rachel.
Eli.
Logan.
When I finished, Maya sat quietly for a moment.
“You’re going to call him?”
“I don’t have his number.”
“You have his wife’s number.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“True.”
She waited.
I knew what she was doing.
“You don’t have to give me the patient silence.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re doing it right now.”
“I’m sitting.”
“Very meaningfully.”
She smiled.
Then she became serious.
“What do you actually want?”
It should have been an easy question.
I had spent years telling myself I wanted closure.
But closure was one of those words people used when they wanted an ending to something that hadn’t truly ended.
“I want to know why.”
“Why he left?”
“Why he stayed away.”
Maya nodded.
“And after you know?”
I didn’t answer.
Because the truth frightened me.
After I knew, I might have to decide whether seven years of silence mattered more than everything before it.
My shift ended at four.
At four fifteen, I was sitting in my car with Rachel’s number open on my phone.
I didn’t call.
Instead, I drove to my father’s house.
Dad lived on the western edge of town in the same small brick house where Logan and I had grown up.
He had talked about selling it after Mom died.
He never did.
The maple tree we had climbed as children still leaned over the driveway, larger now, its roots raising one section of pavement.
Dad’s sedan was parked outside.
I sat behind the wheel for nearly two minutes before getting out.
He answered the door wearing old jeans and a green sweater.
“Colin.”
“Hey, Dad.”
He looked surprised.
“You didn’t call.”
“I know.”
“Everything all right?”
I studied his face.
For the first time in years, I wondered how much of it I had failed to see.
“I met Eli.”
Dad’s expression changed.
Slowly.
First confusion.
Then recognition.
Then something that looked almost like relief.
“So you know.”
“Apparently everyone knows except me.”
“Colin—”
“Is Logan in Millhaven?”
Dad nodded.
“He’s been there almost seven years?”
Another nod.
“You’ve seen him?”
“Yes.”
“How many times?”
Dad stepped backward.
“Come inside.”
“I’d rather you answer.”
“More than once.”
“How many?”
He looked tired.
“I don’t know. Fifteen times, maybe twenty. Over the years.”
Twenty.
The number felt enormous.
“You’ve sat with him twenty times and never once told me?”
Dad looked toward the street.
“Come inside, son.”
This time I followed.
The house smelled the same as it always had.
Wood polish.
Coffee.
The faint cedar scent from the old hall closet.
