Photo by Steven Michael
Seth sat on the bench trying to think of the right words. In actual fact, there were no words for what he had to say; for what he was about to do. He looked at the paper again, which he’d stared at for the last thirty minutes. Dear Grace. It was as far as he got.
His hand was unsteady, and the words uneven, and though his fingers were unused to writing, it was not this that made the pencil quiver. Outside, the wind cried mournfully, and frigid air crept into his thin clothing, but it was not the cold that made his body shake.
He only hoped she could forgive him. His hand finally allowed him to scribe.
It was not a decision easily made.
He sat at this bench when he first saw her, not yet seven years old. …
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