At the end, she asked.
“Where are you staying?”
I hesitated.
“In a cave.”
There was silence.
Then she laughed.
A surprised, disbelieving laugh.
“You’re serious?”
“Yes.”
“You got out of prison and moved into a cave?”
“Technically, I was homeless first.”
She laughed harder.
I laughed too.
That was our first shared moment.
It mattered more than I can explain.
Two weeks later, Lily visited.
Samuel drove her.
She was tall.
Almost my height.
She had my hair.
My grandfather’s eyes.
She stepped out of the truck and stared at me.
I did not move.
I wanted to run to her.
I did not.
She chose.
After several seconds, she walked forward.
Then hugged me.
I broke.
Completely.
I held her.
She held me.
Eleven years disappeared and remained at the same time.
“I’m sorry.”
I whispered it into her hair.
“I know.”
She answered.
That was not forgiveness.
