A bird landed on the windowsill outside—small, quick, rust-colored breast bright against gray feathers.
"Pyrrhuloxia," she said softly, smiling at it like greeting an old friend. "They're like cardinals, but softer. See how the red is more muted? More pink than crimson. The males are prettier, but the females are smarter."
The bird hopped once, head cocking, then flew away in a flutter of wings.
I looked down at my hands. Scarred knuckles from fights I shouldn't have started. Calluses from years of building and breaking and holding things too tightly. Burns from welding. Cuts from blades.
These weren't the hands of a good son.
Maybe I shouldn't have come.
Then her hand reached out, fingers wrapping around my forearm with surprising strength, urgent and warm.
"Wyatt," she said, and the sound of my name in her voice hit me like a round to the chest. "What are you doing here? Weren't you supposed to be at the game with Sophie? She's such a sweet girl. I wish you could see how much she likes you. You should bring her by for dinner. I'll make pot roast."
I froze, heart hammering against my ribs.
Sophie.
I hadn't thought about her in years. Hadn't let myself. Couldn't afford to.
"Mom," I said gently, carefully, trying not to shatter whatever fragile thread had brought her back to me, "that was a long time ago."
The words hung in the air between us like smoke.
And I watched—helpless—as the glimmer in her eyes faded. The light that had sparked when she said my name dimmed and went out like a candle snuffed by wind, replaced by the same distant politeness from before.
She let go of my arm and turned back toward the window.
"Pyrrhuloxia," she said again, voice soft and distant. "They're like cardinals, but softer. See how the red is more muted?"
Word for word.
Exactly the same.
My chest tightened until I couldn't breathe, until my ribs felt like they were cracking under pressure I couldn't name.
Stupid. Why couldn't I just play along?
I should've saidyes. Should've told her Sophie and I were still friends, that everything was fine, that the life she remembered was still real, still happening somewhere outside this room. It wouldn't have mattered. She wouldn't have remembered five minutes from now, anyway.
But I'd told her the truth.
And the truth had cost me the only moment of recognition I'd get.
We sat like that for the next thirty minutes. She repeated herself—the flowers, the bird, small observations about the light and the weather, how the desert looked different in morning versus evening. I responded when appropriate, nodded when she paused, asked questions that gave her something to answer.Pretended the repetition didn't feel like drowning in shallow water.
She had no concept of time. No sense that she'd already told me these things, that we were caught in a loop neither of us could escape.
And I couldn't take it a minute longer.
When I finally stood, my legs stiff from sitting rigid, she looked up at me with that same polite smile.
"It was nice to meet you," she said warmly. "Thank you for visiting."
I bent down and kissed her forehead, breathing in the faint scent that used to be home. Vanilla from her baking. Sunshine. Love.
"I'll be back soon," I said, the lie burning my throat like swallowed gasoline.
